


safe (but lost on the way)

by daisywillliveforever



Series: all these broken pieces (between us) [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, Homophobia in general, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 55,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27109516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisywillliveforever/pseuds/daisywillliveforever
Summary: Alfred F. Jones isn’t interested in men. He’s going to move away from the small town he’s been stuck in since he was born, meet a nice girl with green eyes and under-plucked eyebrows, and get his business degree so he can take over his father’s company. Simple, easy, and very American Dream of him, wouldn’t you say?Yeah, right. Tell all that to Arthur, Alfred’s secret boyfriend.
Relationships: (past) America/OFC, (past) France/England, America/England (Hetalia), Canada/Female Cuba (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), Minor or Background Relationship(s), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: all these broken pieces (between us) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978762
Comments: 60
Kudos: 83





	1. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in this chapter for homophobia, including characters being bullied because of their sexuality, internalized homophobia, and the f-slur. There’s also a bit of ableism, a brief moment of a character injuring themselves on purpose (tw: self-harm tw: blood) and descriptions of a panic attack. 
> 
> This story is sort of a character study, and therefore will have a heavy focus on character(s) growth. I’m not pulling any punches with how awful some of these characters behaved in the past, either, Alfred is a bully, here. More on that in the end notes. 
> 
> This is a companion piece to “You’ll Never Find Love in an Open Hand”, but you really don’t need to know anything about that fic to read this one (and vice versa). I’ll do my best to have an update schedule to accommodate both fics, to avoid spoilers! 
> 
> The title is from the song Rainbow Body by Sundara Karma. I love their music I highly recommend you check them out (esp. while reading this chapter)

Alfred opened the door to the McDonald’s, heat washing over him as he stepped inside. He rubbed his hands together to bring blood back into his fingertips. The AC in his truck had been stuck at a crisp 66° since before Thanksgiving break. Alfred was reminded, by a smug voice sounding suspiciously like his father, that he’d _wanted_ the older Ford model over a new car. Classic cars were cool, Alfred had always justified, even when they broke in the most inconvenient ways. He was beginning to think that the pickup was just a piece of junk.

Needless to say, Alfred was grateful for the restaurant’s heating system. He was also grateful for the smell of food deep-frying behind the counter. But Alfred wasn’t here to eat.

“Hey there, Art,” Alfred said, sliding into the booth at the back of the nearly empty restaurant. Across from him sat Arthur, who gave him a weak smile when he settled into his seat.

“Told you to not call me that, _Alfie_.”

Alfred hated that stupid nickname, but he’d forgive Arthur of anything. After a quick scan around the place to make sure that no one could see them, Alfred pulled his hand out from where he’d hidden it on his lap and squeezed Arthur’s hand on the tabletop. Though when Alfred pulled away, Arthur scowled at him.

“Lighten up,” Alfred said. “It’s about to be Christmas, and we’re together.”

“It doesn’t count, you’re not even going to be back until the new year. And we’re together _here_ ,” Arthur griped, gesturing to the restaurant. “Why can’t you take me anywhere nice for a change?”

Arthur had a valid reason to complain, Alfred conceded, because they _did_ always meet here, or at other places where they would never be recognized. Places that were written off included: anywhere in their small town (meaning that _this_ McDonald’s, their regular meetup spot, was about forty-five minutes out of their way); anywhere they might be recognized by one of Alfred’s Dad’s business associates (meaning restaurants where they sold three-course meals); and anywhere they might run into Matthew, Alfred’s brother (meaning the hockey rink).

They used to meet in secret because their high schools were rivals and, as quarterback, Alfred couldn’t be seen openly dating a boy from the opposing team’s side. Arthur was a punk, back in high school; he wore eyeliner and listened to music with a lot of emo riffing. He didn’t have the social standing to cause a ripple that big, for anyone to know or care where he was from, should Alfred go public with their relationship. And now that Arthur was a year out of school and attending classes at the local community college, this detail mattered even less.

No, the real scandal wouldn’t be that Arthur was a boy from the rival high school, but rather that he was a _boy._

Alfred had seen how people in their small town—including his classmates, including himself—had reacted when Ludwig Beilschmidt and Feliciano Vargas started dating a few years ago. Anything those two did ran the rumor mill for months, and Alfred certainly didn’t help. He was ashamed to admit that he helped spread a nasty, untrue, piece of information about their sex life. The rumor involved Alfred somehow overhearing Feliciano, while in action, call Ludwig a “naughty boy”. It had followed the couple around for almost two weeks before something else caught the gossip sphere and Alfred’s rumor faded into obscurity.

There was other, more sinister abuse Alfred had witnessed, too, all second-hand. The worst of it was when someone spray painted the word “fag” on Ludwig’s locker, with hate symbols to match. The school never pinpointed who did it, which sounded like the quitter’s way out to Alfred. He suspected that they didn't try to find the culprit, focusing on covering it up ( _literally_ , Ludwig’s locker was repainted the next day), instead.

Feliciano—but, weirdly, not Ludwig—refused to speak to Alfred after that incident. It was strange, because Alfred had always liked Feliciano, despite his annoying tendency to ramble about anything and everything. He’d almost considered them friends, once. But Alfred hadn’t helped himself by getting swept up in gossip, and Ludwig and Feliciano thought Alfred was the one who did it for that very reason. He could never figure out how to correct their assumption.

So, yes, Alfred was afraid of any backlash he and Arthur might face, if they were seen around town together. As the most popular guy at their school (Alfred knew when to be humble and when to accept the facts, okay?), Alfred understood that he’d be ostracized by his teammates, most of his friends, and maybe even his family, if he came out, boyfriend in tow. So, as he and Arthur got ready to celebrate their one-year anniversary, Alfred knew the real reasons that they met in secret. It had nothing to do with petty school rivalry.

 _Besides_ , Alfred thought as he knocked his knees gently against Arthur’s, beneath the table, _this isn’t going to last._

Alfred’s plan was uncomplicated, as far as plans go—he would break up with Arthur over the summer, go away to college in the fall, meet a nice girl with green eyes (his only stipulation, for a girlfriend), and get married to said girl so he could carry on the Jones family name like he was supposed to, as the oldest son.

It was bound to happen. Alfred felt guilty, that Arthur didn’t know about this self-imposed expiration date, but it was better for them both, this way. Arthur got to live in ignorant bliss and Alfred… Alfred got to enjoy this relationship for as long as he was allowed. Got to love Arthur for as long as he was allowed. And then he would let Arthur go. Simple as that.

“Have anything fun planned for Christmas this year?” Alfred asked, leaning back in the booth to make himself more comfortable. Not that the hard plastic was comfortable, but still. Being with Arthur alleviated much of the stress Alfred usually carried.

Although Arthur seemed a bit stressed himself, a bit distracted, tonight. He kept glancing out the window at the flat expanse of highway, caught by the flash of white and red lights from passing cars headed to faraway destinations.

Alfred’s question seemed to draw Arthur our of his funk, at least momentarily.

“Alistair’s coming home for the week,” Arthur said, shaking his head fondly. “He spent nearly five hundred quid on a plane ticket to come see us for four days. _And_ I’m going to have to listen to him complain about his jetlag the entire time, it’s bound to be awful.”

Alfred had been friends with Arthur’s oldest brother, Alistair, once, although he lived in Glasgow, now. There was no unspoken rule against them meeting each other’s families, they just never told them about the nature of their relationship. Not that they made a point to do it often, spend time with one another’s families, that was. Alfred had yet to introduce Arthur to Mom, in part because she was never home.

(Arthur had only met Dad once, while they were dating, and a few times before, too. It never ended well. Alfred actively tried to keep the two of them apart.)

“That sounds fun!” Alfred said. “I’m sure the twins will enjoy seeing him.”

“Yeah, well, they barely remember him, so,” Arthur snapped, before his shoulders drooped and he looked away. “Sorry. Guess I’m in a right mood tonight, huh?”

Alfred brushed his thumb over the back of Arthur’s hand, his pale skin unusually cool to the touch. As Arthur liked to say, _Cold hands, warm heart._ Then, he typically shoved his icicle-fingers down the back of Alfred’s pants, just to hear Alfred yelp and bitch about it.

 _He can be so annoying, sometimes,_ Alfred thought, fondly. Just then, Arthur’s nose scrunched, his lips pulling into an amused frown.

“What’re _you_ looking at?” Arthur asked, with an unusual amount of bite.

Aware he’d been caught staring, Alfred flushed and looked away. He slid his other hand beneath Arthur’s, to comfort him and keep him warm; compared to Arthur, Alfred was practically a furnace. Also, if Arthur’s hands were coming anywhere near him tonight—which Alfred hoped they would—they were going to be warm, goddammit. Seriously, Arthur could freeze Alfred’s dick off with those things.

Alfred held both his boyfriend’s hands on top of the table for nearly fifteen minutes. He was proud of himself, for that, because for 8 p.m. on a Wednesday, this place was surprisingly crowded. No one paid them any mind, except for one older lady who teetered past their table just to give them a judgmental glare. Alfred retracted his hands swiftly, after that. Arthur scowled but remained silent, long used to Alfred’s knee-jerk reactions.

“I know the truck has more space, but the heater’s still shot,” said Alfred, after a moment.

Arthur sighed, purposefully put-out.

“I suppose we can sully Flying Mint Bunny for yet another night. Unless you’d rather drive the forty-five minutes back to your humble abode,” Arthur said, stressing the _humble abode_ part a bit too much for Alfred’s liking.

“Yeah, yeah, shaddup,” said Alfred, tugging his boyfriend up out of the booth and further, just momentarily, into the frigid December night. “Dad’s home,” (for the first time in a week and a half), “so… your car it is.”

Arthur gasped, dislodging himself from his comfortable position tucked against Alfred’s side. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong moment to be offended; they were standing in the middle of the drive thru. Which was, also unfortunately, bumper-to-bumper with cars.

“It’s bad luck to not call her by her name!” Arthur said, ever indignant.

Matthew’s words, from an argument not that long ago, echoed in Alfred’s ear— _you can’t even get someone’s pronouns right, why should you care about the last name I want to use?_ Alfred knew what Matthew would say if he were here right now, _O_ _h, so you can call a car by it’s rightful name and not me? I guess if that’s your M.O., Alfred…_

Aware that the car to their right had inched forward, leaving a gap just wide enough for the car to their left to inhabit, if they weren’t standing there, Alfred shook off thoughts about Matthew and conceded. Just this once. Because he didn’t want to be honked at, right now.

“Fine, _Flying Mint Bunny_ it is.”

A small piece of Alfred’s pride was worth the thankful expression Arthur shot him. Arthur was convinced that his car possessed some sort of… fairy? Demon? Alfred didn’t know, truly, because Arthur refused to talk about it. But he spoke of his car like a living being and revered her as such.

Flying Mint Bunny lived up to her name; the car was a compact sedan painted the most atrocious mint color Alfred’d ever seen. The heater worked in here, at least, which Alfred immediately cranked to the highest setting. Arthur drove the car away from the crowded McDonald’s, to the far edge of a nearby superstore parking lot. He parked the car at a slight angle and cut the engine. It wouldn’t matter in a few minutes; they could make their own warmth.

Alfred leaned across the console to press his lips, feather-light, to Arthur’s.

“Mhm,” Alfred hummed, moving away to take his glasses off and place them in the empty cupholder. Everything went fuzzy, at the edges, save for Arthur’s face, just close enough to stay in sharp focus.

Arthur was on a mission tonight, apparently. He waited for Alfred to finish getting situated before leaping across the console, tangling his hands in Alfred’s hair to yank him down to meet Arthur’s incessant kiss.

Alfred let himself get swept up in it, momentarily, even let Arthur bite his lip so hard Alfred tasted metallic on his tongue. He drew a firm line, though, when Arthur began pawing at Alfred’s crotch, tugging at his fly in a rushed display.

Alfred wasn’t even hard, he was startled to discover, he sported a semi at best. Arthur would probably take offense, to that, although given the circumstances, Alfred could hardly blame himself for not being turned on. Arthur fumbled with the zipper, lips sucked in between his teeth and refusing to look Alfred in the eye. Zombie-like, yet narrowly focused, he didn’t react to Alfred’s quiet, “Artie.”

“Hey, hey,” Alfred said, louder, reaching down to grasp Arthur’s wrist and physically stop him from continuing. “Arthur. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said, a straight-up lie. “Absolutely nothing, Alfred.”

He still wouldn’t look Alfred in the eye. Great.

Switching tactics, Alfred said, with forced cheerfulness, “Okay! Wanna get in the back so I can give you a bro-job? Hey, that’s a pretty good one, ha, “bro-job”.”

Arthur never turned down a blowjob—he had a slight oral fixation. Alfred did, too, which was part of the reason they worked so well in the bedroom. Get Arthur’s dick in your mouth, and you could get him to do just about anything, talk about anything.

Arthur nodded once, the movement jerky, before nearly kicking Alfred in the face to get into the backseat. He didn’t even acknowledge Alfred’s joke, even to call it stupid, which was wildly unlike him. Alfred tried not to let worry consume him as he crawled after his boyfriend.

Once they were both situated, Alfred curled an arm around Arthur’s waist and kissed him slow. There was an unyieldingness to Arthur, tonight; his lips moved mechanically. And unlike his usual, _ahem,_ loud and emphatic noises of approval, of indignation, of pleasure—Arthur was quiet. Too quiet.

As far as final straws went, Alfred discovered his when he brushed his fingers over Arthur’s now-exposed cock and registered that his boyfriend was barely half-hard.

Alfred pulled away, rubbing at a crick in his neck and letting Arthur readjust himself accordingly. There was limited visibility in the backseat—they were parked on a dark stretch of pavement, far from the yellow-orange streetlights—so Alfred heard rather than saw Arthur’s jaw click shut, teeth grinding together.

“I can’t do this,” Arthur muttered.

“I don’t mind, it’s all good, we really don’t have to hook up or anything, tonight! I’m happy just spending time with you, Arthur,” Alfred said, reaching for Arthur’s hand, resting on the leather seat between them. Alfred twined their fingers together.

Arthur huffed a laugh but it wasn’t a nice sound. He rubbed his free hand over his face. Alfred startled when Arthur squeezed his hand, tighter than usual, the curl of his nails biting the back of Alfred’s hand.

“No,” Arthur said, quietly. He untangled his hand from Alfred’s; Alfred wished he’d come back, if only to steal more of the warmth Alfred offered. “I mean I can’t do this, _us_.”

Dread settled in Alfred’s stomach next to his dinner. He stared wordlessly at Arthur, unable to process what he’d just said.

“What do you mean, you can’t do “us”?” Alfred said, trying to ignore the rapid beat of his stupid heart. “I can go home, if you need some space—”

“Christ, but you’re thick,” said Arthur—

(Once, Alfred had mistaken that as a compliment. “Oh, you think I’m _thick,_ huh, Artie?” Alfred had joked, which was followed by a long lecture about nuances of the English language, of the superiority of British English to American English, and everything wrong with American slang.

“So, you think I’m thick in two places?” said Alfred, when Arthur finally took a pause to breathe.

“I—ugh, I suppose, yes, you are,” Arthur said with a quirk of his lips, and then he’d stuck his _freezing_ fingers up the back of Alfred’s shirt, and there’d been hell to pay after that—)

—“Space from this conversation, that’s what I need.”

The car door opened, then, and Alfred chased the brush of air before Arthur slammed it shut. Alfred brushed his hand across the slight depression his boyfriend’s ass left on the seat. Outside, Arthur paced back and forth, mumbling to himself—a bad habit he’d picked up years ago and never dropped. The thick pane of glass warped the sound, made it so Alfred couldn’t understand what he was saying. It didn’t matter. Alfred had a feeling he knew exactly what Arthur was debating.

Taking a fortifying breath, Alfred squared his shoulders and joined Arthur outside.

“—finally get how Francis felt when I wouldn’t—”

“Arthur? Seriously, dude, you’re freaking me out, here,” Alfred said, slapping his palms on top of the car and leaning over the roof to catch Arthur’s eye.

Arthur’s breath hitched and he stopped pacing. His back faced Alfred, hiding his expression, but Alfred could read the tension in his body by the hunch of his shoulders, the curl of his hands into fists.

“I want you to do me a favor,” Arthur said, the waver in his voice nearly drowned by the rush of highway traffic in the distance. If Alfred hadn’t learned to read Arthur’s every tone in the year they’d been dating, he would’ve overlooked the hesitance, the _fear,_ present there.

“Anything, baby,” Alfred said, not letting himself hesitate.

( _Baby_ was Arthur’s favorite pet name. He’d never said as much aloud, but his reaction—enthusiastic, in bed and tender, soft, everywhere else—was a dead giveaway.)

“I want you to come with me, when we go back,” Arthur spoke at a breakneck pace, as though he couldn’t stop or else he’d lose his nerve. “We should find a restaurant that’s still open in town, maybe that steakhouse you always say has the best ribeye. I know you already ate but you’re always up for seconds, right? You and your American metabolism. And—and I want you to hold my hand so everyone can see.”

It painted a pretty, but impossible, picture. Arthur never considered what might happen after, if he and Alfred went out somewhere they might be noticed, recognized. If those assholes at school had spray painted Ludwig’s locker, what would they do to Alfred, their star sports figurehead, if they found out he liked taking it up the ass? More importantly, what would happen to Arthur?

Arthur was supposed to be the pessimist, too, and wasn’t that ironic? He wasn’t scared of people, though, was convinced that their _love_ could weather any storm and Alfred was just being shallow. Alfred was afraid about losing his good reputation, sure, but he was more afraid of physical retaliation. The sort he’d been dealing out for years to people like Lovino Vargas, and _that_ thought made the guilt swirling in Alfred’s gut twist tighter. Would anyone even care, if Alfred came out, or had he made up all the naysayers, had they all graduated years ago, and the only bully left now was Alfred himself?

(Just because all the high school bullies had flown the coop didn’t mean there weren’t other people who would object. Who wouldn’t hesitate to follow them out to their car and—)

Wheels hitting the pavement jarred Alfred from his increasingly disjointed thoughts. A group of pre-teens had gathered a few spots away and were using the wide, raised curb to do jump tricks with their skateboards.

Alfred pressed his forehead to Flying Mint Bunny’s roof, swallowing heavily.

“You…” Alfred paused, licked his lips, “you know why we can’t do that.”

“No, I really don’t. Please, enlighten me,” Arthur said. His voice still wavered but with repressed anger, now. It was enough to make Alfred glance up, take in Arthur’s shaking shoulders. A breeze ruffled the uncombed hair, spots he couldn’t quite reach, on the back of his head.

“What if something happens?” Alfred said, appalled at how _small_ he sounded.

Arthur spun on his heel, combined light from the brown light-polluted sky and far-reaching streetlamp’s rays revealed a flash of raw emotion on his face. He seemed halfway close to crying, eyes a touch too wide and lips pressed bloodlessly together.

“What if nothing happens?” Arthur said. “Nothing will happen, by the way. Some people will talk but, tell me, Alfred, whose opinion to do you value more?”

 _Fuck,_ Arthur really knew how to cut an issue down to the bone. It infuriated Alfred and impressed him at the same time. He could never stand up against it, never knew how to defend himself against that kind of scrutiny.

“I really don’t think you get it, dude—"

Arthur groaned, fisted his hands in his hair and tugged. His frustration was evident, and Alfred would do anything to relieve him of it.

“I just want you to hold my hand in public and not worry about who’s looking! Is that so hard?” Arthur yelled, releasing his grip to slap the top of his car, to lean back into Alfred’s space. Upon realizing what he’d done, Arthur frowned, expression almost apologetic for a second, and he rubbed at the mint finish with a muttered, “I’m sorry, darling.”

Even the few feet separating them felt too far, suddenly. All Alfred wanted was to curl up in his basement with Arthur, wanted to hear him gripe about everything under the sun (a typical evening, then), wanted to get lost in some baking show and offer to massage his feet because Arthur’d had a long day. Alfred could even envision Matthew being there with them, sitting on the other end of their L-shaped couch and rolling his eyes at their antics in that quiet, disapproving way of his.

Would it really be so bad, for Alfred to oblige Arthur? Alfred wasn’t making, like, a formal declaration in the paper about his sexuality, or anything. He would just be taking Arthur out to a nice dinner—which Arthur deserved, even though other people were bound to make it difficult, were bound to make nasty comments and stare openly at them, worse than at the McDonald’s because these people would _know_ Alfred. But maybe… maybe… if it would make Arthur happy…

Alfred reached a hand out, slowly, enveloping Arthur’s. A hopeful expression bloomed across Arthur’s face, a wide smile pressing deep dimples into the curve of his cheeks—

“Yo, those two dudes are holding hands!” Their argument had attracted the skateboarders’ attention, apparently, because one of them stopped mid kick-flip to say, “yo, Ben, check it out, isn’t that the gayest shit you’ve seen in your life?”

The frantic beat of Alfred’s heart was back. He felt like someone’d dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. He retracted his hand as if Arthur’s hand was scalding, stuffing it into his jeans pocket and taking a succinct step backwards.

Arthur’s eyes were still wide. The smile was gone, though. _That’s important,_ Alfred thought, in a distant way, _he’s not smiling, why isn’t he smiling?_

“Bro, you’re literally standing right in front of me, and you’re telling me _that’s_ the gayest shit I’ve ever seen? Get outta here,” the other kid said, just loud enough that Alfred could hear.

Alfred glanced at them, then, watched the two boys grapple with one another in a half-hearted excuse for a fight, Alfred and Arthur already forgotten.

If the skater dweebs had noticed, what would the waitress at this hypothetical restaurant say? What if they ran into one of Dad’s business partners, or Dad himself? (No, Dad was at home, don’t be stupid—) But they could still say something to him, like, _hey, Fred, I saw your boy out last night and he was, ahem, holding hands with another boy. Is this how you’re choosing to raise your sons?_ Oh, God, what had Alfred been thinking—

Arthur followed Alfred’s gaze, glancing over his shoulder as if he hadn’t even noticed the kids back there. His expression shuttered completely, then, any trace of openness completely eviscerated. Alfred wanted to reach out, to hold Arthur’s face in his palms, but the distance between them felt insurmountable.

“You seriously care about the opinions of a few fucking children over what’s happening with us, right now? Seriously?” Arthur inhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He turned back to Alfred. “Right, I guess I have my answer, then. You’re supposed to stand by my side, and… you’re supposed to _love_ me!”

“I do love you!” Alfred blurted, without thinking. The words tasted like glass, cutting him open from stomach to esophagus.

He’d never said that before, the capital-L Love word. Neither of them had. Alfred had known for some time how he felt, but to put it into words, to vocalize it when everything else was so _wrong_ between them, so unlike a typical relationship, well. It didn’t feel right, to tell Arthur.

Besides. It would make things easier when they broke up. Thinking of that rationalization now, Alfred held in a laugh. Fuck, but he was stupid.

Arthur seemed equally as shocked at the admission. His chin warbled with the effort to keep his words in, to think before speaking. Alfred knew that look well, because Arthur rarely spoke without thinking, even when he wanted to. 

“Well, you certainly don’t bloody well act like it,” Arthur finally settled on, and when he allowed himself to laugh, it was angry. “This is your exact problem. You care too much about what others think of you to see what’s right in front of your fucking face.”

It hurt because it was _true._ Alfred took another step back, as if he could physically retreat from the blow.

Scoffing, Arthur crossed his arms and looked away. The streetlight caught something glistening on his cheek, a burning trail of orange flame tracking from his eye to his chin. A tear.

“I don’t understand,” Alfred said, because he didn’t. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What was your first clue?”

Arthur’s tone sent a chill down Alfred’s spine. It was eerily emotionless, completely void of any interest in their conversation, in _Alfred_. 

“But, but that’s not how this is supposed to work!” Alfred said, grappling for something, anything, to get Arthur to look at him, again. “I’m supposed to break up with you!”

Arthur sneered at that, but he was back to glaring down his nose at him. Alfred would take it. Dad would approve, would tell him that even small victories are victories, in the end.

(Dad wouldn’t approve of this situation, Alfred knew, but still—)

Arthur said, “news flash, I’ve already—”

“No, no I… I had a plan,” Alfred said, still talking even though a small, rational voice in the back of his head screamed for him to shut the fuck up, like, yesterday. “Like, okay, let’s be honest, this was never gonna work long-term, right?”

“We’ve been together for a year, what about that isn’t long-term to you?” Arthur asked.

“No, you’re right, but like, long-long-term? Like, once I got to college, this was gonna be over, I was gonna end it. Because you’re a guy. And I’m a guy. And I should be dating a woman, don’t you think?” Arthur said nothing, didn’t give his approval, so Alfred barreled on. “I think I should be dating women, especially if I’m gonna take over Dad’s company and, like, get married and stuff. You know?”

“Not exactly. You don’t _like_ women, and gay marriage is, in fact, legal, in case you forgot. Help me understand what I’m missing, here,” Arthur said, flatly.

“You don’t know that! I love chicks!” Alfred snapped, before slumping his shoulders in defeat. Arthur _did_ know that, because Alfred himself had told him, numerous times. “Yeah, fine, you’re right. I just think it’s better this way.”

Arthur shook his head, hand coming up to cover his eyes.

“You make me so sad sometimes, you know that?” Arthur said, at last. He sounded so very defeated.

Fuck, but Alfred felt guilty. He never meant to make Arthur feel like this, like he was _less than._ Alfred’s breakup plan was supposed to save them both this kind of suffering, not cause more of it.

“I’m-I’m sorry, Artie. I didn’t mean—”

“I’m not only sad for me,” Arthur said, and he finally removed his hand to reveal those green eyes of his, brimming with tears that refused to fall. He closed them, a look of raw grief on his face before that, too, disappeared.

Alfred, for the first time in a very long time, was struck completely dumb. He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Don't worry, I know when it's best to abandon ship. I hope you find whatever you're looking for, because you'll not find it with me,” Arthur said. His anger returned, accompanied by a firm resolve.

He set his jaw, turned away from Alfred to yank the driver’s door open. Before he got inside, before he slammed that door on Alfred and their relationship, Arthur took a deep breath. His gaze caught Alfred’s and _held._

“Congratulations, Alfred, you’re free to do whatever you want, now. I guess you always were.”

Alfred stepped back from the car to avoid getting his feet caught beneath the wheels. Arthur was petty enough to let it happen.

A cavern had opened in his chest sometime during their conversation, growing and consuming everything in its path. Alfred should be relieved, that Arthur had broken up with him, that they’d called it quits now rather than six months from now. _It’s better this way. Things would only be harder and more complicated if we kept dating._

He repeated that mantra as Arthur unrolled the passenger’s side window and hurled a small, metal object—Alfred’s glasses—in Alfred’s general direction. He didn’t even try to catch them. Alfred couldn’t bear to pick them up, either, not if it meant looking away from Arthur’s face, which was illuminated by the lights on the dash as he leant over the console.

Alfred was convinced that Arthur would say something cliché, like, “Goodbye, Alfred,” but he didn’t. He just stared, top lip pulled between his teeth. His hand hesitated on the gearshift.

 _Don’t. Don’t go. Don’t do this._ Those were Alfred’s clichés, and they fought brutally against his logic. The overwhelming urge to leap into the car via the still-open window and beg for Arthur’s forgiveness leaned heavy on him.

Arthur made the decision for him when he shifted out of reverse and pulled away from their little corner of the world. Despite his shitty eyesight, Alfred could still tell which car was Arthur’s because of its atrocious color. He watched as Arthur made a left at the shopping center light and then he was on the highway, his taillights undistinguishable from everyone else’s.

Alfred knelt, told himself it was to pick up his glasses and not to recover. His heart thrummed in his chest, panic escaping him with each _woosh_ of breath. Slowly, deliberately, Alfred scraped his fists against the pavement just to ground himself, pain bringing reality back sharp enough to crack Alfred’s knuckles open and he watched blood bead on his pale skin.

He stayed, hunched over on the asphalt, for longer than strictly necessary.

 _Arthur would make a disapproving sound and pull my hands to his mouth, kiss each wound and call me self-destructive, but he’d be all fond about it,_ oh fuck, _what have I done—_

Alfred stood. He wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, absently noting that it was wet with tears. A streak of blood took their place.

The glasses were bent a little but not cracked, thankfully. Alfred twisted the wiry, square frames back into place, fiddling with the nosepads before putting them on.

The walk back to his car took longer than Alfred expected. He kicked at the asphalt, faded white lines crisscrossed with tire tracks and cigarette butts. One of the skateboarders jeered at him when he passed, but Alfred ignored him. Someone could’ve hit him with their car, at the moment, and he wouldn’t notice.

It was for the best, Alfred reasoned with himself, that it happened this way. It was bound to end in heartbreak no matter what, because Alfred couldn’t _be_ with a guy. Not, like, permanently. Not if he wanted to run Dad’s company and live up to the Jones name and not be ridiculed everywhere he went. He’d tried to explain all that to Arthur, but Arthur could be so difficult to reason with, sometimes.

Alfred regretted telling Arthur about the plan, if only for the pain it caused his boyfri— _ex_ -boyfriend. Alfred should have just let Arthur do the talking. But Alfred was notoriously bad at keeping his big, fat mouth shut.

Arthur’s hurt face swam in front of his eyelids every time Alfred blinked. He couldn’t stop reliving the terrible, blank expression on Arthur’s face as he drove away, his familiar vulnerability shuttering disappearing as he did. Arthur was so good at hiding behind self-imposed walls, walls that’d taken Alfred forever to figure a way around, to get to know the Arthur he loved best. It would take forever for Alfred to scale those same walls again, to regain Arthur’s trust.

 _That’s assuming we’re getting back together. Which we’re not, so it doesn’t matter,_ Alfred thought, with some level of finality.

It was for the best.

Country music blared at Alfred when the truck’s engine turned over, the radio static barely interrupting some sappy love song about all the kinds of women worth lovin’. Alfred, who couldn’t stand a car ride without music and would generally sing along to anything, slammed the _off_ button immediately. He drove home in silence.

* * *

 ** _The first time_** Alfred ever saw Arthur was at a football game. Alfred was a sophomore on the varsity team, and while he was on track to be quarterback next year, he still rode the bench most of the season.

Arthur’s then-rumored boyfriend, Francis Bonnefoy, was involved with the newspaper, and attended most sporting events to take pictures. Although Arthur went to a different high school, he still accompanied Francis most of the time. They never officially came out as a couple, but people still speculated, in part because Francis was out and weirdly proud about it, too.

Pinpointing the exact nature of Arthur and Francis’ relationship was difficult, even if Alfred wanted to which he _didn’t_ , because Arthur seemed to live in obscurity; he wasn’t even on social media. Any substantial information about him remained vague, at best. In short, Alfred had never even met the guy, and had very little to base his assumptions off of, whenever Arthur happened to cross his mind.

Alfred had been sitting on the bench, as usual, crisp air on the open field leaving him with a bone-deep chill despite his thermal underwear. The crowd behind him cheered as the home team made another touchdown. Alfred clapped along, tried to appear enthusiastic, even though he’d much rather be out tearing up the turf with the rest of them.

A shutter clicked behind him, and Alfred glanced over his shoulder to catch Francis taking a close-up of the players. A low, metal fence separated the field from the stands, but they were still within speaking distance. Had the crowd not been roaring—they had a good turnout, tonight—Alfred would’ve been able to chat with Francis at a normal volume.

Except Alfred wouldn’t be caught dead talking to _someone_ like Francis. _Someone_ meant someone not in his social circle, someone not popular—although, Francis certainly was well liked, enough, despite the whole _gay_ thing. That was Alfred’s biggest hangup about being seen with Francis—he was _gay._

(Dad always told him, _I just don’t understand their lifestyle, but I guess if it’s not illegal, fine. I’d just rather they keep it behind closed doors. I don’t need to see it._ Which was sort of how Alfred felt, too. Any curiosity he felt about _the gays_ was also kept behind closed doors. In his, y’know, _mind_. It was for the best, to just not associate.)

Alfred supposed that, should Francis want to interview him, Alfred could talk to him then. That might be okay.

Just then, a slim, _angry_ person came storming down the stands. He wore all black, including combat boots and a black beanie, the latter of which couldn’t quite hide his tangled mop of golden blond hair. As he got closer to the field, Alfred noticed a dark ring of makeup—eyeliner—circling his eyes. The kohl look gave his sharp green irises a beacon-like quality.

 _No._ Alfred couldn’t think about another dude’s eyes. That was kind of fucked up. He should really turn around now, and stop looking at the attractive… objectively attractive?— _no. Normal dudes didn’t think other dudes were attractive, even objectively—_ guy. At the normal-looking guy. Who looked like any other dude Alfred might pass on the street.

A hush fell over the crowd as the kicker lined up the extra point. The guy, who Alfred still had an eye on, didn’t look at the field to watch. To be fair, neither did Alfred.

“Can we go home already? It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here,” the guy griped to Francis, once he got within speaking range. He pronounced things a bit weird, Alfred thought, stretching out the word _tit_ to _teet._ He probably had an accent, of some kind, or a speech impediment—Alfred couldn’t tell, now that they’d scored their extra point and someone in the crowd was leading them in a victory chant.

When Alfred had the chance to look back, again, because he was just bored and _not_ looking for anyone, both Francis and his friend—Arthur, he later discovered—were gone. 

* * *

The ski resort they visited in Canada each year over Christmas break was nestled in the mountains a few hours from Vancouver. It was weird, coming without Mom this time. The flight seemed to take an extra hour without her snacks and comforting shoulder to rest on. _Time with just the three of us will be fun_ , Alfred reasoned, as he watched Dad argue with the underpaid rental car staff about upgrading from a sedan to a vehicle with four-wheel drive. Alfred exchanged an exasperated look with Matthew but stayed quiet.

By the time they arrived, stepping out of the car and into the thin, high-altitude atmosphere, Alfred longed for the hot summer sun or the warmth from a roaring fire. Matthew—weirdo that he was—took a deep breath that set his shoulders back, pulling him to his full height for the first time in almost a year. Unlike Alfred, the cold breathed new life into Matthew, set him at ease. Alfred would never understand it, although he clasped his brother’s shoulder as they hauled their suitcases into the lodge’s lobby.

“Ready for a week of torture—I mean, fun?” Alfred asked, because while he looked forward to this vacation each year, one of them always wound up in some sort of trouble by the end of it.

Matthew rolled his eyes but was distracted halfway through. They’d just walked by an advertisement for the resort’s new outdoor hockey rink. According to the schedule, there were pickup games for guests and employees every afternoon.

“Cool,” Matthew said, quietly awed. “I should’ve brought my skates.”

“I’m sure they have a place to rent them,” Alfred said. He exchanged a hesitant smile with Matthew.

The brothers hadn’t been on the best terms, recently, but Alfred was determined to use this trip to change that. He’d been working up the courage to be more open with his brother. About… about _preferring_ men, and other things. Life-goal related things. Matthew would take it in a stride, Alfred knew, and even if he never told another soul under the sun, he could trust Matthew with his secrets.

That wouldn’t make confessing any easier, but still. Matthew’s support was a steady comfort, to Alfred.

“I’ll even play a pickup game with you, if you want,” Alfred said.

Matthew smiled at him, deep blue eyes going all soft, turning nearly violet in this light. He clasped Alfred on the shoulder, briefly, before picking up their abandoned luggage and taking it up to their rooms.

Dad’s room was adjacent to theirs, connected by a small, lockable door. Matthew set his suitcase against it and nearly gave Dad a heart attack when he couldn’t get through a few minutes later.

“Get freshened up, boys,” Dad told them, eyes flicking between Matthew, perched on the desk, and Alfred, who’d flopped back onto the bed closest to the door, which he’d claimed as his own. “We’re having dinner down at the restaurant in an hour.”

He’d barely closed the door behind him before Matthew was up and out of the room, throwing open the balcony doors so he could stare moodily at the darkening sky. Alfred wasn’t gonna follow him, except the temperature quickly dropped as a breeze ripped through the room, and he hated to see his brother’s moodiness return so easily. Dammit, they’d been getting somewhere, the past few days, and Alfred wasn’t going to let one conversation with their dad ruin it.

Alfred huffed and pushed himself to his feet.

“Yo, little bro. What’s up?” Alfred said, as he leaned back against the balcony doors. He shot a quick look to his right—the balcony to his Dad’s room was just a few feet away, the curtains on the French doors obscuring the view inside.

Alfred had never been afraid of heights, not even ten story drops, so he joined his brother on the ledge, elbows propped up against the stone railing. Below, people returned to the lodge from the ski slopes in droves, trying to outrun the setting sun. Well, the sun didn’t really set up here, just slipped behind the looming snow-capped mountains until the world grew purple and then black, revealing a wide-open sky of stars.

Now, a few shined down on them, even this early in the evening, including what Alfred thought was the Big Dipper.

(Orion’s Belt was Arthur’s favorite constellation, in part because it was so simple. “Any old line of stars could, in theory, be Orion’s Belt. Let those old codgers who make star maps try and dispute me about it,” he’d always said, his form of a joke.

And then, when they drove out into the middle of nowhere to stargaze, Arthur would point to unnamed sections of the sky and say, deadpan, “ah, yes, and _there's_ Orion’s Belt.” It always took Alfred a good five minutes to realize that Arthur, in fact, had no fucking idea what he was talking about.)

Alfred nearly winced at the memory. He wanted to use this vacation as an escape from Arthur, not wallow in his dumb feelings. It had only been five days, but five days without Arthur felt like a lifetime.

The worst part, besides the breakup itself, was that Alfred couldn’t even _talk_ to anyone about it.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” Matthew mumbled, turning his face into the wind as it swept along the side of the building.

“Yeah, me either!” Alfred said, overly bright. He shivered. “I love coming up here, it’s always a good time! D’you think the restaurant has burgers, ‘cause I’m really craving—”

“No,” Matthew said, harshly, interrupting Alfred. Alfred’s jaw clicked shut; it was unlike Matthew to be so rude. “I mean, can you believe we’re here, again, just so Dad can go off and take care of business and not spend any time with us?”

Alfred glanced at his Dad’s room nervously, expecting for their father’s face to appear in the window. It didn’t, but Alfred still warned Matthew, “hey, man, shut up, please? Dad’s room is right there.”

“I don’t care if he overhears, Alfred, it’s true,” Matthew said. His eyes flicked over to meet Alfred’s and there was an unspoken fury in them, the likes of which Alfred had never seen, from his brother. “Dad only comes up here every year so he can meet with his shady business partners outside U.S. borders.”

Okay, Matthew could insult Dad all he wanted, but the business? That was their _family_ business, and Matthew insulting it meant he was insulting the entire family, the entire Jones legacy.

“Tha-that’s not true! We all vacation here to ski and spend time together, as a family,” Alfred said. “And his business partners aren’t _shady._ ”

Matthew rolled his eyes and adjusted his glasses, which had started to slip down his nose.

“Really? Then who always took us around, during the day? Think, Alfred, who taught you how to ski?”

It’d been Dad, right? Except Alfred didn’t have many memories with Dad, back when they came up here as kids. Dad was an enigma, back then, who spent most of his time traveling on business or else locked up in his office on calls all day. He had an entire company to run and operations did not stop for something as trivial as vacation time. Not for the CEO and Chairman of the Board, anyway.

No, when Alfred pictured his first time donning skis, it was Mom’s face that appeared, not Dad’s. Mom, who’d been so patient with him, guiding him through the movements on the bunny slopes long after Matthew’d graduated to more advanced courses. She always took them to get cookies after, fresh from the bakery in the adjacent town, even though it might spoil their dinner. “Don’t tell your father,” she’d say, teasingly, as they looked over the brightly colored display cases.

Alfred missed her. He hadn’t seen her since the week before Thanksgiving. She’d used a business meeting of her own as an excuse to avoid dinner with Dad. She hadn’t always been this busy with her own career, but as Alfred and Matthew got older, and as the rift in her and Dad’s relationship grew, she spent more and more time in the office. She only stayed at the house when Dad wasn’t around, and recently, he spent more time at home than he did away.

Alfred hated that time with his parents seemed to exist on a scale; he couldn’t go too long with one before the other displaced the delicate balance.

“I’ll bet he just brought us up here, this year, so we could do him some sort of favor,” Matthew mused, more to himself than anything, although it drew Alfred back to their current conversation.

“What’s made you so cynical?” Alfred had some musing to do of his own, and it started with, “Was it Lovino? I’ll bet it was Lovino.”

Matthew _had_ been hanging around Lovino more, recently. A strange friendship had sprouted between them as a direct result of some stupid English project that was due after their break. Alfred and his project partner, Antonio Carriedo, were already done with their stuff. Despite Alfred’s poor track record with academics, it hadn’t been all that difficult to complete.

Arthur’d gotten a kick out of the project—that Antonio was his partner, mostly. Six degrees of separation and all that.

Antonio didn’t _know_ about Arthur and Alfred, but Alfred worried about it coming to light every time they got together to do their classwork. Alfred felt that way whenever he was around anyone who knew Arthur, like there were all these secrets swirling beneath his skin, unspoken, and if he opened his mouth at the wrong time, those unspoken truths might come spilling out—

“Matthew, can I ask you something?” Alfred said, and it came out strained, _wrong._

Matthew gave him another one of those ever-perceptive side-eyed looks. His grip tightened on the railing. Alfred watched them, and then the trees swaying in the middle distance, barely in Alfred’s line of sight.

“You just did, doofus,” Matthew said.

“Ha, ha, you’re hilarious, dude.”

Alfred took a deep breath, tried to center himself. What was he even doing? Was he about to tell Matthew about… about…

As much as Alfred wanted to talk to his brother, he also wanted to talk to someone who understood. To someone who felt just as confused, just as twisted up inside as he did.

It would be so much _easier_ if Alfred just wasn’t himself. If he was good at all the things his father expected him to be, like school, and business negotiations, and liking women, _not_ men. Maybe Alfred wouldn’t feel so twisted up all the time, if he could just meet his father’s standards like a good fucking son.

(If only Alfred wasn’t in love with a man, wasn’t in love with Arthur Kirkland, who was contrary to everything Alfred was raised to admire, to aspire towards, but—but no. That wasn’t fair of Alfred, to pin all that on Arthur. It wasn’t _his_ fault that Alfred felt like this.)

“Alfred?” Matthew prompted, after a minute had passed without Alfred elaborating on his question.

“Um,” Alfred said, eloquently. “Do you ever feel like… do you ever feel like you aren’t who you’re supposed to be? Like, your soul wasn’t set right when you were born and you’re just kind of not who you’re meant to be, and you can’t figure out how to set things right with yourself? Like it’d be easier to be somebody else?”

Matthew stared at him with open concern on his face, now, eyes wide behind his glasses. His face went a bit pale—not that it wasn’t already—a stark contrast to the familiar red hoodie he always wore. He leaned forward, into Alfred’s space, until their shoulders were nearly touching.

“No, I can’t say that I’ve ever felt that way. What brought this on, are you okay?”

It was too much. Alfred never should’ve brought this up. Matthew didn’t understand, and how could he? This was Alfred’s burden to carry.

(Alfred tried not to feel jealous of his brother, for knowing exactly who he was and what he wanted from a partner. It lined up with what their father wanted, too, the bare essentials were there, at least, and Alfred was spiraling again—)

He was trying to be more open with Matthew but this was _too much._ Alfred couldn’t do it, not here, not now. Matthew had a valid point, earlier, because what if their Dad somehow overheard them talking out here?

“Never mind!” Alfred said, feeling disjointed, feeling cornered. He took a step backward, teetered on his heel, and reoriented himself by feeling for the door handle. Matthew just watched, too shocked to do anything else. “You know how I love to talk outta my ass! Anyway, I’m gonna grab a shower before we have to go meet Dad, okayawesomebye!”

Alfred didn’t relax until he was safe beneath the shower’s spray where he stood, forearms braced against the shower tile, head tilted forward to rest between them. What he wanted most right now was to call Arthur and complain about his family, daydream about a vacation that he and Arthur might take together, instead, in the just-distant-enough future. But Alfred couldn’t even do that, anymore. He let the water wash over him until it went cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t support the narrative that bullies who torment and/or abuse people bc of their sexual (or gender) orientation are just in the closet or otherwise "confused" about their own orientation. I think it’s harmful to the LGBTQ+ community in a whole plethora of ways (although it certainly does happen irl, don't get me wrong). This piece tries to tackle the harmfulness of that narrative as Alfred comes to terms with his sexuality. I’ll be treating this subject matter with the seriousness it deserves, but please feel free to correct me/give constructive criticism if you think I’m not handling certain things correctly! 
> 
> In my original draft of “You’ll Never Find Love in an Open Hand” Alfred was a cardboard cutout bully and raging homophobe to boot. During the rewrite, I tried to give him more depth. Hopefully, this fic helps with that, as well. 
> 
> Also: Alfred and Arthur are approx. one year apart in this fic (Arthur was a senior when Alfred was a junior in high school), but since Alfred isn’t 18 at the beginning of this story, I’m tagging it with the “Underage” warning. 
> 
> Phew, I think that about covers it! I haven’t once plugged my tumblr jfc so uh come hang out with me I guess? @we-arethequeens


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter: everything in the tags + (non-graphic) suicidal ideation. Also, just a general warning for Alfred's dad :/

**_The second time_** Alfred saw Arthur, he didn't recognize him without the eyeliner and all-black getup. It was nearly a year later, in July. School would be starting up again in a month, and Alfred wasn’t looking forward to it.

Academics never came naturally to him, not like it did for Matthew. Alfred struggled in classes, no matter the subject. He only ever really excelled in P.E., and whatever shrug-off electives he’d chosen to take, like woodshop.

Not to mention workouts were different, during the school year. Alfred had a specified workout method that he’d perfected, and he preferred to do alone. It involved a lot of heavy metal music and cardio. Even in the latter days of summer, the varsity team was expected to practice in preparation for their first game, meaning Alfred spent entire days out on the field with his teammates. He enjoyed football, and enjoyed bonding with his friends, but he got burnt out easily like any sane person would, running drills all day. 

The other benefit of Alfred’s personalized workout was the privacy it offered him. In the past year, or so, showering with his teammates had become… awkward, to say the least. The locker rooms at their school hadn’t been updated since the mid-‘80s, and the showerheads were only separated by a half-wall. This didn’t leave much up to the imagination, especially with his teammates who goofed off in the locker rooms, and Alfred never actively _looked_ but it was hard not to see his bros' muscles. There was just no avoiding well-toned, half-naked bodies after practice (and, sometimes, even less than _half_ ).

Alfred was pretty sure regular, normal guys didn’t get boners during their five-minute post-practice showers, either, although he always wrote it off as the adrenaline from pushing his body to its limits. He’d tried just about everything to get his overactive dick to stop; pushing himself less at practice, pushing himself more at practice (to the point that, one time, he nearly threw up on the field), running ahead of everyone to get into the showers first, lingering behind until almost everyone had cleared out. Nothing worked. Alfred just did his best to ignore it, and hope his teammates weren’t paying nearly as much attention to him as he was them.

It was a weekend, though, which meant no day-long drilling routines or sweaty practice helmets or anxious grabs for a towel. Alfred and Matthew, who’d only just turned sixteen earlier that month, begged Dad to take them to the state fair. In an unusually good mood, Dad caved, and drove them an hour out into the country.

Dad dropped them off at the front entrance and told them to behave themselves before shoving fifty dollars into Alfred’s hand. He told them he’d be back at nine, that he had some important client meeting to get to at noon and he’d better not hit any traffic on the highway _or else, Alfred._ Alfred took it all in a stride, thanked his dad for the money, and then they were off.

They spent the day stretching out their cash, plus some money Matthew’d brought, riding rides and falling victim to the rigged carnival games. They made it out of the hayfield maze just in time for sunset on the Ferris wheel, Alfred’s favorite.

As they inched toward the front of the line, Alfred became aware of the rambunctious group in front of him. There were six of them—five boys and one girl. The boys all spoke in ridiculous accents, and Alfred had watched just enough British TV to pinpoint English and Scottish. The tallest, and presumably oldest, boy had reddish hair and his arm slung over the chick. The redhead (Alfred nicknamed him Flash, since he sort of looked like that one artist’s interpretation of the character in Book IV, Strip III of—well. He digressed.) spoke with a bit of brogue and had freckles dotting his skin like a blizzard’s snowfall.

The three youngest kids seemed disinterested in what the older three were saying, choosing instead to run literal circles around them and tease one another mercilessly. Alfred barely paid them any attention, he was focused on the third teenager, a blond who seemed oddly familiar.

(Alfred had yet to come up with a nickname for him, was stuck turning ideas over in his head. None of his usual comic book characters seemed to fit this guy.)

The guy sported a black t-shirt with The Clash’s white-star logo embezzled on the front. The exposed flesh of his forearms was pale but compact, lithe with wiry muscle. He stood a few inches shorter than Alfred but seemed to take up the entire width of the winding, roped-off space. No, he seemed to take up the entire park, with that surly curl of his mouth and sharp bite of his laugh, when Flash swore a blue streak or finished telling a story.

 _His eyes,_ Alfred thought, although the guy was in profile and it was difficult to see, _are green like leaves at the season’s turn._ He had no idea how he knew, just that he did.

Nervous at being caught out, at being caught staring when he shouldn’t be, Alfred turned to his brother. He realized they were at the front of the line, now, and was already thinking about what they’d do next. Namely, dinner.

“I’m thinking cheeseburgers—” Alfred said, cutting himself off when he realized Matthew had disappeared from beside him. Alfred spun in place, going up on his tiptoes to look back, down the dizzying crowd of people in line. He wasn’t there.

Alfred texted his brother, _where r u?_ and waited for a response. None came and as the people in front of the group in front of Alfred boarded the ride, panic rooted itself in Alfred’s stomach.

Flash was arguing with the attendant—they’d reached the front—saying, “but we’ve got six! What do you mean only five can fit in a basket?”

“Maybe I can just sit in your lap, Alistair—can I just sit in his lap?” the girl asked, gesturing to Flash and fluttering her eyelashes at the attendant in turn.

Alfred felt bad for the attendant, who looked to be about his age and had a pimple the size of a dime on his forehead. Panic-stricken, the guy blurted, “I’m sorry but it’s Rule #2. See?”

Alfred craned his neck and, sure enough, it was written on the “Rules & Regulations” sign: Only five people allowed per cart.

“You two go, I’ll stay with the kids,” the blond said, reaching out to ruffle one of the identical twin’s hair.

Fla—Alistair and his girlfriend put up a good fight, but with a row of impatient people at their back, and an even more impatient ride attendant, they conceded.

“Thanks, Art,” Alistair said, reaching over to punch his (brother?) friend’s shoulder.

The wheel spun slowly, allowing their brightly colored cabin to ascend and the people in the next one to get out. As the blond—Art, what was that short for?—and the three younger kids piled in, the attendant turned his attention to Alfred.

“Next,” he said, in a bored tone of voice. “Hey, are you by yourself?”

Alfred checked his phone—still no messages from Matt, where _was_ he?—and said, “yeah, well, not technically, I’m waiting for my bro. Can you give me a second?”

“No stalling! Either get in or get out of line.”

“You sure? That’s not on your sign, dude,” Alfred said. 

The attendant gave Alfred an exasperated look. Alfred went up on his tip toes, looked back at the long line of people waiting to get onto the Ferris wheel. No sign of Matthew. And it was nearly sundown already. This ride was, like, half the reason he’d even wanted to come to the state fair in the first place.

“Can I go by myself?” Alfred asked, hopefully.

“It’s either this cabin or the next one,” said the attendant. “But no. We’ve got a lot of people waiting.”

Catching onto the holdup, the group behind him grumbled impatiently. Their very loud, very _smelly_ baby let out a piercing wail.

Inside the cabin, Art squabbled with his brothers, caught in a nonsensical argument. 

Rock and a hard place. At least this Art guy seemed like he'd be interesting to talk to.

“Okay, fine. ‘Scuse me,” said Alfred, pushing by the attendant to clamor into the cabin and take his seat opposite from Art and his brothers.

They immediately stopped, staring at him with confusion (from the kids) and irritation (from Art).

“Hi, sorry they said I couldn’t take a ride by myself, so… yo?” Alfred said, by way of greeting, feeling sheepish. 

He didn’t expect a response, and sure enough, the kids promptly ignored him again for a game that involved a lot of hand slapping. Art just sighed in an overdramatic, put-upon way, and stared at the space between his feet rather than the view. 

Their cabin was relatively small, just two short benches facing one another with a minimal amount of space between them. When the cart shuddered to a start, the tops of Alfred's chucks brushed against Arthur's ratty converse. The lower half was solid metal and the upper half was wide open air, with no barrier to protect against an accident, should someone lean too far out. That also meant there was no barrier between Alfred and the view, however, which he much preferred. 

The Ferris wheel rose, jolting to a stop to let more people on the ride. The kids didn’t seem scared by the periodic starting and stopping, or the way the cart teetered on its axis. Art—Arthur? Alfred didn’t know any other names “Art” could’ve come from—watched the cart sway, hands gripped tight on his kneecaps, jaw clenched tight. His eyes remained firmly on the latticed metal floor rather than taking in the beautiful, sprawling fields and forests unfolding before them the higher they climbed.

 _He’s nervous,_ Alfred realized, as he found himself studying Arthur more than the scenery.

“Hey, dude, you know the horizon’s that way, right?” Alfred asked, extending his arm out of the cabin into the open air and pointing at the skyline.

Arthur’s gaze snapped up, holding Alfred’s for a tantalizingly long minute. His expression went flat save his eyes, green irises peeking through narrowed eyelids.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” he huffed, and, jeez, this guy was kind of a grump, huh?

Luckily, two of Alfred’s closest friends were notoriously tetchy—Ivan and Yao, bless them and their hot-button tempers. Years with them had taught him how to handle just about anyone. He leaned back, into the unyielding plastic bench, and stretched his arms behind his head in an overly casual way.

“Fair enough, you don’t have to talk back.” Alfred used his best salesman voice; he wasn’t very good at it yet, but it got Arthur’s attention, at least. “Just figured you’d like some advice, _mano a mano_.”

Arthur opened his mouth, as if to speak, but the cart hit a breeze and it swung against the creaky metal spindles. The kids squealed but they seemed more amused than afraid. Arthur’s face, though, drained of blood.

Taking that as his cue to continue, even if Arthur didn’t want him to, Alfred said, “I learned this trick a couple years ago. I’ve never been too afraid of heights, because heroes don’t get scared—” This earned him an eyeroll. “—but still. Ya wanna know what it is?”

“I am not _afraid_ of heights,” said Arthur, by way of response.

As if to prove his point, Arthur edged slightly closer to the side of the cabin, fingers wrapping around the thin metal barrier. His mistake was in looking the wrong way—down instead of up. His face went even whiter, if possible, and he cringed back into his own seat.

His brothers seemed to find this hilarious, and they giggled together. His youngest sibling—gender to be determined, at a second glance—leaned briefly against Arthur as a means of comfort. It would’ve been heartwarming, if it wasn’t so damn amusing, a five-year-old comforting someone Alfred’s own age. He slyly turned his snort into a cough, to avoid suspicion.

“For starters, don’t look down,” Alfred said.

Arthur scowled at that and said nothing.

The cart stopped moving again. The kids giggled and scrambled over to Alfred’s side of the cabin, peering out at the fairgrounds beneath them. This high up, the tents and other rides looked like a model train set, moving synchronously. People moved like miniatures in the crowds below.

Alfred slid effortlessly across the cabin to take the kids’ place next to Arthur. He was proud that the cart barely moved in response.

“But also,” Alfred said, smile on his face, “just look at the horizon. Focus on your end goal, it makes everything else seem... peripheral.”

Arthur glanced at Alfred from the corner of his eye, head tipped to the side. He seemed a bit distrusting, which, fair, given that Alfred was a complete stranger, but, much to Alfred’s delight, he turned his head to slowly gaze out at the fairgrounds and surrounding landscape. This close, Alfred could hear his breath go from ragged, near-panicked, to a calmer, slower, pace.

“Alright, I’m looking at the horizon, now what?” Arthur asked. “I’m missing the view this wa-ay!”

The mechanical whirring of the Ferris wheel’s engine was the only warning they got before it started moving again. Alfred couldn’t contain his snort, this time, as Arthur screeched mid-sentence.

“Once you don’t feel all nervous about looking out,” said Alfred, looking out at the horizon himself, now. They would be at the top next, “you can work your way in, start seeing all the things you were too afraid to look at, before.”

Arthur inhaled sharply at their next turn but remained quiet, again. Alfred watched him take it all in, eyes consuming the view with a new sort of hunger.

Like Midas had touched the entire valley, golden light crested over each hill, over each crop, over the fairgrounds and their little cabin. The light made a kaleidoscope of Arthur’s eyes, illuminated brown and grey and, yes, flecks of gold bright as the sun itself nestled amongst the green. There was a small smile on his face, now, but he didn’t seem aware of it.

 _It’s like a fairytale,_ Alfred thought, something warm unfurling inside of his own person.

And then the wheel jostled, again, took them down, and Alfred wondered what the _fuck_ he was doing, looking at another dude like _that._

Alfred slid toward the opposite edge of the bench, glanced out at this shadowed side of the fairgrounds, instead, darkness already sweeping in from the east.

“You know, I think that helped,” Arthur said, after a moment. He sounded almost relieved, not that Alfred would know the difference. “Thank you.”

Alfred spared him a glance, a tight smile, to say, “you’re welcome! Happy to help ya overcome your fears.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and then Alfred _had_ to look away, again.

They descended with the sun, and did not talk further save for Arthur’s siblings’ chatter. Alfred snuck the occasional glance at Arthur, stopping only when he caught Arthur doing the same to him.

Alfred really hoped that Arthur didn’t think he was a weirdo for looking. That he didn’t think Alfred was, like, _interested._ Dudes never reacted well, when they thought you were _interested._ Not that Alfred had ever been interested. Or was interested in Arthur.

Anyway. He just hoped Arthur didn’t read into it too much, was all. Because Alfred didn’t mean anything by his casual glances. 

The attendant unlocked their gate, and the kids ran off, towards the exit where Alistair and his girlfriend were waiting. Alfred went next, since he was closer, stopping for a second to check his texts. There was one, from Matthew, but Alfred didn’t get a chance to read it before a hand landed on his shoulder.

Alfred jumped, startled, and spun around to find Arthur standing there, hand on his cocked hip.

“Hiya, sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” said Arthur, tone far more pleasant than when they’d started their ride. “The least I can do is thank you, I’ve always been a touch… _wary_ of taking my feet off the ground, if I’m honest.”

Alfred smiled, brushing a sheepish hand through his hair.

“Alfred F. Jones,” he said. He felt weirdly nervous, all of a sudden. “The “F” stands for… it’s stupid, I always tell this joke but it’s kinda dumb… ahem, it's for Franklin, after my granddad. Anyway—”

“Yes, crikey, I get it,” Arthur said, rubbing the bridge of his nose before looking back up at Alfred again, a touch weary. “But thank you. I really do think your advice worked, up there.”

“Don’t even think about it. Anything to help a citizen in need!” Alfred felt his cheeks heat. God, that was embarrassing. “I didn’t catch yours?” he asked, because he wanted to confirm that “Art” really stood for “Arthur”.

“Oh. I’m—”

“Arthur?”

And there came Alfred’s answer, right on time.

 _“Matthew?”_ both he and Arthur exclaimed at once, in varying shades of confused. Alfred turned around and, yep, there stood Matthew, looking a bit peeved but also confused, himself.

“What are you doing here?” Matthew asked, to Arthur.

Arthur’s eyes flicked back and forth between the brothers, widening slightly with the realization that Alfred’d come to expect, when someone met either him or Matthew without the other hovering nearby.

“I… suppose that makes a fair bit of sense. I’m an idiot,” Arthur muttered, and then said, “wow, hi, Matthew. It’s been a while, huh.”

Before Alfred could acknowledge that his brother and Arthur knew one another, somehow, Alistair stomped over.

“Igs,” he said, and oh boy did Alfred want to know the origin of that nickname, “we’re waiting. The twins are hungry and want to play _more_ games, now, can you believe tha’?”

“Where _were_ you?” Alfred whispered, turning on his brother.

Matthew just looked disappointed, and a bit crestfallen. He said, “I told you five times that I was going to the bathroom, Alfred. It kinda sucks that you didn’t wait for me.”

“I… I’m sorry,” Alfred said. Ugh, now he felt guilty. Just another way he’d let down Matthew, great.

“Look, we’re going to get food,” Arthur said, approaching them with a sour look on his face, “and Alistair suggested that you come with. Not that you want to, or anything, but…”

“That sounds like fun! Thanks, Arthur,” Matthew said, overly friendly, following Arthur into a crowd of people without looking back.

Alfred rolled his eyes and trailed after them. It’s not like he had much choice in the matter.

“Bleh, this burger’s terrible!” Alfred complained, half an hour later, as he bit into the soggy bun.

Alistair patted him on the back, which was bracing in a weird way. He had the same abrasive personality as Arthur but far more charm; he’d entertained Alfred the entire time they stood in line with tidbits about hunting, the Scottish highlands, and dirty limericks.

“They might’ve been invented in Ireland,” Alistair said, with a chuckle, “but I can appreciate art when I hear it. Now, ‘There once was a woman named Alice…’”

Now, he patted Alfred on the back with a sympathetic expression and said, “you poor Americans and your street food. Disgusting, innit? I almost feel sorry for you.”

“Okay, one, this isn’t street food,” Alfred argued, holding up a finger. “And two, you’re telling me that _your_ food is any better? I know what you do to sheep's heads where you’re from. _Disgusting, innit?_ ”

Alistair turned bright red beneath his freckles, sputtered for a minute with what to say. Alfred picked up a fry from his abandoned takeout container and popped it in his mouth, feeling smug.

“Can I have some?” one of the twins asked, appearing so suddenly at Alfred’s elbow that he nearly fell off the wooden bench. His grubby little hands reached toward Alfred’s food.

“Sure, kid, have at it,” said Alfred, pushing the checkered basket in the kid’s direction.

“I’m Seamus,” said the kid, before stuffing his face with lukewarm fries.

“No,” his twin said, sliding up to knock arms with his brother, “I’m Seamus.”

Watching them bicker over who was Seamus and who wasn’t was pretty amusing, if Alfred was honest, and also vaguely reminiscent of days gone by with Matthew. Alfred glanced at his brother, then, who was deep in conversation with Arthur and barely looked over at the disruption.

Arthur, though, looked up and into Alfred’s eyes for a dizzying second. He chewed on his lower lip and turned his attention elsewhere.

“Okay, Seamus,” Alfred said, also turning his attention elsewhere, “and not-Seamus. What carnival games have you played so far?”

The twin Alfred had referred to as not-Seamus seemed ready to protest at the nickname. _Tough luck, kid,_ Alfred wanted to say, _every twin has his_ _not-Seamus._

“We haven’t done the one with the hammer!” Seamus pipped up, before his brother could say anything.

“Someone’s losing their marbles, we played wack-a-mole five times,” Alistair said, ruffling Seamus’ hair, much to the kid’s displeasure.

“No, not that! The one that dings!”

“Oh, you mean the high striker!” Alfred _loved_ that game. “That’s my favorite! I’m the best at it, see?”

To prove his point, Alfred flexed his bicep. The twins fell over themselves giggling.

Alfred resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, to see if Arthur was looking again. He felt, stupidly, that he wouldn’t mind Arthur looking.

He was certainly looking ten minutes after _that,_ as he stood with the rest of their group to watch, with bated breath, as Alfred lined up the mallet.

“C’mon, we don’t have all day,” the attendant muttered as he wiped a grease-stained palm across his forehead.

Alfred took another practice swing, over correcting so the mallet wouldn’t connect to the lever. He always won, had hit the bell every year since he started doing push-ups, but he had new people to impress this time around. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself.

Alfred swing again and this time it was true—the puck went soaring and hit the bell, a loud _ding ding ding_ that rang above the other sounds in the park. An automated voice declared, _we have a winner!,_ but Alfred wasn’t listening to that. Matthew and Alistair bracketed an unamused Arthur and were swaying to an off-tune victory chant. The twins and their younger sibling—a sister, Alfred’d learned, with short-shorn hair to keep it manageable—pulled Alistair’s girlfriend into a chaotic-looking dance around Alfred. The attendant shoved the prize—a giant stuffed alien—into Alfred’s arms.

“Great job, kid,” he said, “next!”

“Arthur,” Alfred said, catching Arthur’s arm as they wandered back out towards the other games, lined up in a row, one after the next. It was dark enough now that the park had turned on the lights strung up between each booth. “Here.”

He handed the prize off to Arthur before he could second guess himself. Arthur just stared with a bewildered expression on his face.

“For overcoming your fears,” Alfred said. “His name is Tony, by the way.”

“Tony?” Arthur’s nose scrunched. Were Alfred’s ears deceiving him or was Arthur’s voice pitched higher than usual, just now? His cheeks were flushed, too, reddened beneath the buzzing yellow lights. “Ugh, never mind that. You don’t have to give this to me, Alfred.”

“But I want to!” Alfred said. “I know how hard it can be, dude, to feel brave.”

Arthur pinned him with a calculating look. They created a significant roadblock standing in the middle of the pathway like this, bisecting the crowd as people were forced to meander around them. Alfred barely noticed, caught by Arthur’s steady stare. Alfred wondered what he saw, if he could somehow understand Alfred’s very soul.

After an endless minute, Arthur nodded. He clutched Tony tight to his chest.

“Very well,” he said. “But you’re getting something in return.”

Alfred perked up at that, snagging Arthur’s wrist and leading him straight to a nearby booth without preamble.

“Awesome! I love free stuff. You’re paying for the game, by the way, since I did the last one—ooh, let’s do a shooter game!”

Arthur wasn’t good at the first game Alfred picked (probably due to Alfred shouting in his ear, _it’s just a high-tech watergun, what’re you doing?_ ) or at landing a ring around a bottle, or at knocking over milk jugs with a baseball. After nearly missing the employee’s head—who ducked and then glared at them, hatred in her eyes—Arthur, looking rumpled, tossed his hands up in defeat.

Alfred approached hesitantly, holding Tony out in front of him as a peace offering.

“It’s okay if you’d like to give up, Arthur,” Alfred said.

“I can't just give up! It's about more than just winning, it's about pride,” Arthur snapped, turning on him with a determined look on his face. He squared his shoulders. “I just need to reevaluate my strategy.”

They ended up at a kiddie pool full of plastic ducks of varying sizes and colors, floating on by. Next to Alfred, a toddler reached for one and missed. A cursory glance at their surrounding game participants told Alfred all he needed to know about the level of strategy required for this.

“Arthur…” Alfred said, not wanting to offend him, but still… “Are you sure this is… um… age appropriate?”

Arthur glared at him and pulled a bright pink duck out of the pool, turning it over to reveal the number four in smudged ink.

They didn’t even get to pick their prize—the perks of playing a game where everyone always won, Alfred supposed—and the employee handed Arthur a bracelet better suited for a child than an adult without looking twice.

Arthur made a strange noise in the back of his throat, staring at the bracelet as if it’d wronged his ancestors, or something.

“Here?” he said, pinching the bracelet between his thumb and forefinger, unsure. “Give me your wrist.”

Alfred stuck his wrist out without thinking twice—without letting himself think twice, because no one was looking (they were miles away from anywhere someone might look, where someone might recognize Alfred)—and let Arthur slip the bracelet onto his wrist.

The only thing separating them was Tony, which Alfred still clutched tight. The bracelet was nicer than Alfred’d thought, though still nothing worth writing home about, clear glass beads twinkling beneath the string lights and the multicolored swirl from nearby attractions. The light refracted, cast pink and blue and yellow dots onto Alfred’s skin.

As if reading Alfred’s mind, Arthur brushed his thumb over the back of Alfred’s hand, over one of those spots. His fingers loosely circled Alfred’s wrist, then, still thumbing across the pinpricks of light. He tilted his face forward, eyes trained down, brow set in an indecipherable furrow.

It felt as if the entire world had just… stopped. Chatter from the crowd, a winning bell, the whir of the rollercoaster tracks, the overlay of twangy music all fell away. He swayed forward, onto the balls of his feet. Alfred couldn’t be that much taller than Arthur, but like this, he had to crane his neck to look at him.

Or maybe it was because they stood so close together. Yeah, it was probably that.

Arthur’s eyes flicked up and met his. Neons of every shade glowed on his skin. His fingers spasmed on Alfred’s wrist.

Someone bumped into Alfred, jostled him forward with a muttered apology. It broke the spell, though; Alfred stepped back, broke physical contact with Arthur immediately.

“You got your prize. Are you happy now?” Arthur said. He managed to make it sound like the whole thing’d been Alfred’s idea. The contemplative look was replaced with a smile, though, so Alfred thought he was just teasing.

“Oh, yeah,” said Alfred, “it’s great compared to yours. Which you need to hold, now that we’re even.”

Alfred turned his nose up at the offering, said, "I spent more money than you. Carry him for a little while longer, won't you?" 

Alfred grumbled but tucked Tony under his arm again, making a show of it but feeling, inexplicitly, fond about the whole thing. 

They meandered for a few minutes, headed toward the section of the carnival where local vendors and artists set up their wares.

“Where do you think Matthew and your crew got to, anyway?” Alfred wondered aloud, becoming fully aware of their absence for the first time.

Matthew, omnipotent God that he was, appeared at Arthur’s shoulder moments later, Alistair & co. in tow. He looked frantic, glasses askew and hair rumpled.

“Haven’t you been checking your phone? It’s after nine,” Matthew said, between breaths.

Alfred’s throat seized, panic setting in quicker than rigor mortis. Dad was going to be _so_ pissed; they’d agreed on nine at the dot, why couldn’t Alfred be responsible, for once?

Something about his expression must’ve alarmed Arthur because he leaned into Alfred’s personal space to say, “everything alright?”

Fuck, this was _Arthur’s_ fault. _Yeah._ Distracting Alfred with his stupid (pretty) eyes and his moronic (funny) quest to win a stupid prize for him. That guy was fucking annoying, and what was Alfred even _doing,_ cozying up to some rando he barely knew? It's not like they were _friends_ or... or anything else.

Alfred set his guard down for one night and this is where it got him. 

(Sometimes, Alfred wanted to brain himself, honestly. It would make his life a whole lot easier, honestly, except then it'd be, you know, not his life anymore, so.)

"Yeah, it would be, if it wasn't for you," Alfred said, harsher than he'd intended. He immediately felt horrible, fight draining out of him in a heartbeat. 

That wasn't the case for Arthur, though. Arthur's eyes went wide, hurt, before narrowing into slits. His lip curled as he shifted onto the balls of his feet. It was a tense, defensive, posture.

Sensing the tension, Matthew cut in.

"We don't have time for this, Alfred, Dad is waiting, c'mon!"

"Wait, I'm sor—" Alfred said, desperate, suddenly, to make things right.

Matthew grabbed his wrist, forcibly dragging him in the opposite direction. Alfred dug his feet in, tried shouting apology after apology to Arthur, unsure as to why he felt so damn guilty in the first place. But Arthur turned his back pointedly, speaking in a low tone to Alistair, conversation lost to the crowd and the distance between them. 

Belatedly, Alfred realized he was still holding Tony. He had his prize _and_ Arthur's. That wasn't fair. He pulled at Matthew's hold but it was unyielding as a vice. Seriously, what was he _eating,_ that Alfred couldn't wrangle his way out of his grasp? No, what was he _lifting?_

"Stop, wait I still have..." Alfred said, watching with despair as they got further and further from Arthur and his family. Eventually, the people passing from booth to booth obscured them completely.

"Honestly, Alfred, you're such a drama queen," Matthew muttered. They approached the exit. "I'll just give you his number in the car. You'd better text and apologize though, he's my friend and you were pretty shitty, just now."

That made the guilt in Alfred's chest recede, but not by much.

Once they were in the car, Dad turned on them with a scowl. He pointed to the clock on his dashboard, which was a few minutes fast.

"You're ten minutes late," he said, sounding disappointed. "That's ten pushups each when we get home."

Matthew, not usually the one to speak up but who hated injustice even in its smallest form, protested weakly, "Dad, the time isn't right. According to my watch..."

"Seriously, Matthew? Would you like it to be fifteen?" 

Alfred watched the interaction silently from the backseat, knowing that if he spoke up now he'd just make it worse. It was best to just give Dad what he wanted, in situations like these. That's something that Matthew was still figuring out. 

As a distraction, Alfred opened a new text thread with the number Matthew'd sent him. He wasn't sure where to begin, with apologizing Arthur. He'd just met him earlier that afternoon, for goodness sakes. 

Alfred figured that, when in doubt, it was best to take the direct route. 

**Alfred (9:09pm):** yo, Artie! Mattie gave me your # three guesses as to who this is lol

 **Alfred (9:11pm):** um I’m sorry for getting all pissy that wasn’t cool. I suck I’m sorry. It wasn't cool of me so. yeah. I'm sorry :( 

**Alfred (9:13pm):** esp since you won me this kickass bracelet. Be honest should I give it to my mom for her birthday? Swarovski has competition

 **UNKNOWN (9:15pm):** i need to speak to matthew abt who all he’s giving my number out to

 **UNKNOWN (9:18pm):** it wasnt but thats ok u were stressed. i get it its all good

 **UNKNOWN (9:22pm):** haha thanks i went to jared’s

 **Alfred (9:25pm):** Jared?

 **UNKNOWN (9:26pm):** u know, he went to jared’s?

 **UNKNOWN (9:27pm):** the advert?

 **Alfred (9:30pm):** ooooh wow I’m an idiot. Haha everyone knows Tiffany is the best anyway

 **UNKNOWN (9:31pm):** fair

 **UNKNOWN (9:34pm):** but yk the diamond industry was just created to make profit. diamonds arent rlly that valuable

 **Alfred (9:36pm):** whaaaat? Dude, no way

**_Alfred has changed UNKNOWN to Arthur_ **

“So, other than being irresponsibly late, how was it?” said Dad, voice low over the buzz of the radio.

Alfred barely looked up from his phone, reading the texts rolling in about diamond monopolies and unethical labor practices.

“It was totally awesome,” Matthew said, sounding almost like _him,_ for a second. Then, perking up, he said, “but, actually, we ran into a friend of ours! Arthur Kirkland, he goes to East River High.”

Dad was quiet, the silence calculating.

“Don’t think I’ve heard of him,” Dad said, slowly. “How did you two meet?”

“Oh, no, you do,” said Matthew in a nonchalant tone of voice. “He dated Francis last year, remember?”

 _This_ made Alfred look up, alarmed. Dad’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. And, of course, Matthew had no idea what he’d done.

(He’d never asked Dad, during storytime as kids, _what about a prince, Daddy? Would the brave knight save a prince, too?_

 _That’s not funny, Alfred,_ Dad said, any softness in his expression gone. He snapped the book shut and, aw, Alfred’d wanted to hear the end, no fair! _Don’t talk like that again, or else._

Alfred never had to ask about what _or else_ meant. Still. Alfred never wondered about the prince’s fate, didn’t let his thoughts stray too far from the princess.

He liked the princess better, right? Didn't everyone? 

It was also, by any means, not the only time Alfred had slipped up in front of his dad. He learned his lesson eventually.)

Something clicked into place, too, _that_ was why Alfred thought Arthur looked familiar. He’d seen Arthur before, heard his name used in more conversations than he could count. _Alfred_ had used his name in more conversations than he could count. Having confirmation of his and Francis’ relationship was strange, but also thrilling; Alfred knew the truth of it, now. The rumors had been right, this time around.

(How did Dad know about Arthur and Francis? _Weird,_ Alfred thought.)

“Ah, yes, Arthur. Didn’t know that boy was a fucking _queer._ ”

Alfred flinched at the same time Matthew did. It almost physically hurt him, to hear Arthur described that way, except that's what he _was._

Maybe that’d been why he was looking at Alfred, on the Ferris wheel and then... that weird moment they'd shared with the bracelet... Maybe he was _into_ Alfred. That made his stomach clench but not roll over. It didn’t completely disgust him—

(that it didn’t completely disgust him _completely disgusted him_ )

\--and Alfred didn’t want to dissect why.

“Why do you even care?” Matthew said, his anger quiet but _righteous_ like a taut bow, and oh no, Dad had poked the beast. He was in for it now. “What do you care who I hang out with, anyway?”

“You’re sixteen years old, Matthew, you’re still a child living under my roof. I absolutely care if you're hanging out with lowlifes like that," Dad said, in that dangerously low voice of his. It sent chills racing up Alfred’s spine.

See, usually Alfred was the louder one, but when Dad and Matthew got into this snippy back-and-forth of theirs, all he ever wanted to do was disappear.

The light of a passing streetlight caught the cool glass beads on the bracelet. Ugh, here he was, wearing jewelry that a boy had won for him. How pathetic could Alfred _be_?

He took the bracelet off, nearly stuffed it between the seat cushions before remembering that this was Dad’s car and he’d inevitably find it, question Alfred about it. He tucked it into his short’s pocket instead, tried to put it out of his mind.

Dad and Matthew continued to argue in the front seat, voices never rising with the force of their anger. That made it worse, that they were so quiet about it. Alfred wished the seat would swallow him whole.

His phone buzzed. Oh, that was right. Arthur (Arthur, the _fucking disgusting queer—_ ) had been texting him nonstop for the past ten minutes.

Alfred glanced down at his phone as if it might bite him. He thumbed over his home button, the messages from Arthur waiting for him. It was rude, to leave a guy hanging, especially when it involved a full-blown rant about the ingenious marketing schemes of precious jewels. Or, according to Arthur, not-so-precious jewels.

Desperate for a distraction, Alfred unlocked his phone and responded.

 **Arthur (9:45pm):** so basically fuck de beers

 **Arthur (9:52pm):** dont tell me ur not responding bc youre SIDING w those fat cats in the diamond business

 **Alfred (9:59pm):** No way dude haha. Don’t buy me a diamond at all broski! Don’t want that from you

 **Arthur (10:02pm):** okay…

 **Arthur (10:02pm):** so u agree its unethical?

 **Alfred (10:04pm):** Yeah I guess so.

 **Arthur (10:09pm):** good then

That was the end of it. Alfred waited, for the rest of the night, for his phone to buzz against his thigh and it just... didn't. Not that he cared, or wanted it to. Their conversation was over. Alfred should probably never want to see Arthur again, shouldn't be thinking about the fun they'd had together, tonight. Dad would hate it, would hate that Alfred enjoyed spending time with... spending time with...

Ugh, Alfred didn't know how to feel. He mostly wanted Arthur to text him, again, but his phone remained silent for the rest of the trip. It was just as well, that any friendship budding between them should crumble and die a quick death like this. Alfred probably wouldn't see Arthur again, so it didn't matter. 

* * *

Dad’s ulterior motive wound up being dinner with a Belgian businessman—no doubt an investor prospect—and his daughter.

“This is my son, Alfred,” Dad said, clasping Alfred on the shoulder in order to shove him forward.

Alfred stuck out his hand for a shake.

“My daughter, Emma,” Dad’s business-partner-to-be said, with a gentle hand on her back.

Emma smiled at them, tucking a strand of short brown hair behind her ear. She was pretty enough, Alfred supposed, for a girl. She seemed to be about as excited to be there as he and Matthew were.

Which, speaking of Matthew, he’d not been given an introduction. He stood to the side, awkwardly, arms crossed. This was typical behavior, for their father, to “forget” about Matthew whenever it was convenient. Alfred made a quiet _ahem_ noise, alerting Dad. Alfred tipped his head in Matthew’s direction.

“Oh, and my other son, Matthew,” said Dad, with a forced smile. He stretched out a hand, as if to clasp Matthew’s shoulder like he’d done to Alfred, but he was just out of reach.

“Charmed,” the business partner said, with an emotionless smile of his own. He gestured toward their table, sitting in a private corner of the lodge’s restaurant, “shall we?”

They sat, and Alfred endured yet another boring business dinner. He pretended to understand a lot about Dad’s company— _oh, I heard stock was down half a point yesterday, can’t trust the markets these days_ —but in fact knew very little. Dad was waiting until Alfred started school, started his business administration degree, before he would teach him anything. But he still, somehow, expected for Alfred to participate in these conversations. It was, Alfred could admit, slightly unfair.

At least he was included, though. Matthew sat to the side, played second fiddle, did not bother to contribute. He was far more interested in Mom’s career, anyhow, a marketing firm she’d helped found to represent sports teams across the U.S. and Canada. He always wanted to take over for her when she retired. After he’d given professional hockey a good run, of course.

Alfred laughed at something the business-investor-to-be said (Alfred’d nicknamed him Norman Osborne in his head, because he gave Alfred an unhinged vibe) and exchanged a bored look with his brother. Matthew rolled his eyes and took a deep sip from his soda. He probably wished it was spiked.

“So, I hear you’ve been coming here since you were boys,” Osborne said, directing his attention to Alfred and Matthew, now.

Startled by the change in topic, all Alfred could manage was a stammered, “that’s right, sir.”

“It’s our first time, at this… quaint little resort of yours,” said Osborne, and if _this_ was quaint, then what kind of vacations did this guy take, on the regular? “I know my Emma would like an escort, tomorrow, to see the town and the scenery.”

Emma herself remained quiet. She did not say if she wanted an escort, let her father talk for her. She just smiled, wanly, from across the table. She ran a fingernail along the edge of her plate and did not meet Alfred’s eyes.

Dad’s gaze, on the other hand, was pressing, a firm, no-nonsense look.

“Okay, sure! That sounds fun. We’re going skiing first thing, and—”

“Oh, no,” said Osborne— _Green Goblin,_ Alfred corrected in his head, ‘cause what an _asshole—_ holding up a hand in refusal. “Emma does not ski. You’ll just show her the slopes, because I’m sure she’ll like to see them even if they are dangerous, and then take her to town. I hear there’s a lovely shopping district, that’s more Emma’s speed.”

Alfred fought with his anger, put a wide smile on his face to hide his indignation. Spending time with some random girl all day to placate Dad and potentially improve his business prospects? Sure, no problem. But to miss out on the first day of skiing, to take away an entire, relaxing afternoon that could be spent with his brother? That was pushing it.

Dad crossed his arms. It was a resolute gesture.

Alfred nodded, avoided looking at Emma when he said, trying not to sound crestfallen, “okay. It’s a date.”

* * *

 ** _A week after the fair,_** Alfred walked in on Matthew and Arthur watching a movie.

It was, maybe, more dramatic than that. They were standing on opposite sides of the Jones’ couch, reenacting the dialogue of a (muted) so-bad-it’s-good movie.

“You’re tearing me apart—Alfred,” Arthur said, accent going from southern/Russian (seriously, what accent _was_ he trying to do, even?) to normal in a heartbeat.

Matthew turned around from his dramatic crouch on the cushion, hopping down and pausing the movie in an unfairly smooth move.

“What’s up, Alfred? Thought you had practice today.”

“Yeah at, like, ten in the morning,” Alfred said, glancing at his watch and then at the darkened room. There was a significant pile of candy wrappers on the coffee table. “How long have you guys been down here?”

“Irrelevant,” Arthur said, with a brush of his hand. “Just like you.”

“Ouch!” Alfred said, reaching up to clutch at his t-shirt, right above his heart. He staggered back and nearly fell for real, tripping over his own two feet.

When Alfred glanced at Arthur, who was sitting with his legs spread on top of the couch’s back, a precarious seat, he stared right back, eyes trained on Alfred’s wrist.

Oh. The glass beads winked at him in the dim light.

Here was the thing—

(Alfred couldn’t justify it. There was no use in trying. He liked to rub his fingers over each bead, admire the bracelet’s contrast against his tan-darkened skin. He liked to picture the look on Arthur’s face when he’d won it, when he’d given it to Alfred.

That was about the time that Alfred’s thoughts shut down, that he stopped thinking about dudes who gave other dudes bracelets. About the time that the voice in the back of his head—the one that was supposed to be his conscious but that he referred to as God and sounded a lot like Dad—told him to _stop it, Alfred. Enough, Alfred. Or else, Alfred._ )

—he’d kept it. So what? It wasn’t that deep.

“You actually…” Arthur muttered. He cleared his throat, restarted. “Not sure what we’re going to do now that you’ve interrupted.”

Matthew made a noncommittal gesture, in the corner of Alfred’s vision, but he couldn’t look away from Arthur any more than he could discard the bracelet.

(Alfred should really stop this. Should stop sending Arthur signals—is that what he was doing? Did Arthur even want signals thrown at him? Did he even notice… _not that there was anything to notice_.

The real truth was that even the thought of Arthur made Alfred feel wary. Nervous. Of what, he couldn't be sure.)

“Nah you can get back to whatever _this_ was, don’t worry about entertaining me. I have a date,” Alfred declared, “with Kat. Matthew, didn’t Dad leave the BMW’s keys with you?”

Arthur said, under his breath, “the BMW…”

“Yeah, they’re right here,” Matthew said as he dug around under the coffee table. “Are you sure he said Kat? Isn’t she dating some Arabic dude?”

“Turkish,” Arthur said, face pointed down, still deep in thought.

“What was that?” Alfred asked.

Arthur blinked, glanced up. His expression was unreadable—Alfred had so little experience with translating Arthur's expressions but, he was shocked to discover, he wouldn’t mind learning.

“Katyusha’s Ivan’s sister, right?” A nod, from Alfred. “Right, she’s dating a Turkish guy. Has been for a while, I think.”

“I bet she’d break it off for me!” Alfred said. “Let’s be real, I’m a hot piece.”

Arthur did a casual up and down of Alfred’s person, which totally didn’t make Alfred feel hot around the collar. Without faltering, he said—

“Doubt it.”

Matthew sputtered a laugh and tossed Alfred the keys. They nearly smacked him in the face but, with hyper-fast reflexes, he managed to snag them just in time. Ha, jokes on you, Matthew.

Despite Arthur’s quip, Alfred left in high spirits, swinging his Dad’s key around his finger and whistling a happy tune—

(resolutely not thinking about Arthur and all the ways he’d looked at Alfred in the past ten minutes, not thinking about if there was a possibility that Arthur might try _something funny_ if Alfred gave any indication that he was… that he was…)

\--and was back in the basement within the hour, feeling horrified.

“I told you Kat was dating somebody,” Matthew said, the smug little shit.

“Why did that Russian freakshow set you up with his younger sister, anyhow?” said Arthur, snidely. “Isn’t she a tad young for you?”

Natalia was, was barely fourteen and an absolute terror. Alfred had barely been at the restaurant five minutes before she twirled Ivan’s scarf around her neck (which, c’mon, it was summer, why did she even have that on?) and made a comment about the stolen pocketknife in her purse.

She wasn’t his type, so what? Scary and small weren’t huge turnons, sue him. To be fair, he was deferential to blonds, but _this_ blond wasn’t worth it.

Even though it would royally piss Ivan off, Alfred just wasn’t into it and had not so subtly ditched Natalia in favor of Matthew and Arthur’s company. Again.

“C’mon, guys, we should do something fun!” Alfred urged, nervous energy brimming over at the thought of sitting still in a room with Arthur for any longer. “You’ve been locked up down here all day, we need to get out, see the sun! Especially you, Arthur, you’re looking a, ahem, _tad peaky._ ”

“Is that supposed to sound like me? It’s a terrible accent,” Arthur said but his lips quirked up in a small smile. “Where would we even go?”

Alfred thought for a moment. It was almost five, and he might be able to get away with driving himself around town on a permit, but he’d surely get pulled over with passengers in the car.

“We-ell…” Alfred said, drawing out the word as he stroked his chin sagely. “Our neighborhood has a pool?”

“Alfred.” Oh, no Alfred hated that tone Matthew used, like he was explaining something to a kindergartener and not a bright one, at that. “That’s fine for you and me, but Arthur didn’t come prepared.”

Alfred glanced at Arthur, confused about what the big deal was.

“So? He can just borrow one of my suits. Or yours.”

Matthew’s face twisted, his lip curled. He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t manage to spit it out.

“He means that those cheeseburgers you gorge yourself with are starting to take their toll,” Arthur said. He rubbed his own stomach to accentuate the point.

Alfred gave an indignant, “hey!”, and then felt his own stomach, subtly as possible, hands running over his hard-won abs to reassure himself of their existence. He hadn’t done hundreds of sit-ups for nothing.

“That’s okay, I can just wear my pants,” said Arthur, wiggling his eyebrows.

“But you’re wearing shorts?” said Alfred.

“I—ugh, never mind. Have you got any cards? I have a game I can teach you, assuming you have the attention span for it. Gotta say, odds are against you, from what I've seen so far.”

“Hey—!“

Matthew retrieved the deck wordlessly and they spent the rest of the night trading stupid jokes back and forth with their aces and queens.

(They went to the pool the next day. Despite being the height of summer, their gated neighborhood pool deck was neat and quiet. Alfred quickly broke that peace when he slung Arthur over his shoulder like a sack of flour and dunked him into the pool.

“You’re kind of heavy,” Alfred said, when he resurfaced, having cannon-balled in after him.

“Oh, sod off,” Arthur grumbled. He splashed Alfred in retaliation. "What if I didn't know how to swim?"

Alfred didn't even justify that with a response, just tried to push Arthur's head back under the water. 

That turned into a splash-fight of the ages. There were no victors—although Alfred and Arthur spent the rest of the afternoon bickering about it—but enough losers to go around; the moms in their skin-tight one-pieces looking on with disdain as they tanned, everyone else in the pool who’d been enjoying a relaxing swim, and Matthew most of all, who pretended he didn’t know them for the rest of the afternoon.

“Oh, boy, I can’t wait ‘til next time!” Alfred said, slinging an arm over Arthur’s shoulders as they left. “I’m gonna pound your ass into the sand court!”

Matthew slid up to Arthur’s other side, exchanging a disgruntled look with a flushed-cheeked Arthur.

“I don’t play volleyball,” Arthur said. Then, with a smug curl of his lips, “how do you feel about cricket?”

“What? Where!” Alfred screeched.

It took a good five minutes of frantic scratching to realize that _cricket_ was less of a bug and more of a sport. Arthur, bent double with Matthew, laughing, wiped a tear from his eye.

“Oh, yes, I can’t wait for next time,” said Arthur, and although it was full of sarcasm, full of mirth, it made Alfred’s stomach go soft like gelatin.

He threw his arm back over Arthur’s shoulder, pulled him in until the other boy was pressed flush against the line of his body. They walked all the way home like that, Alfred rambling to Arthur (who was decidedly unamused), Matthew plodding along after them. Alfred tipped his head back, absorbed the sun, and realized that he’d never felt freer.)

* * *

When Alfred and Matthew returned to their room that evening, Alfred the full force of his jetlag and subsequent full days’ worth of travel hit him like a ton of bricks. He nearly collapsed onto the bed, managed to wrangle himself free from his clothes, first. He slid beneath the covers in just his underwear with a sigh.

“I swear, they make these mattresses softer every year!” Alfred proclaimed, snuggling further into the high thread count sheets.

“You know, hotels don’t actually wash those comforters,” said Matthew, pausing rifling through his suitcase to glance over his shoulder with a look of open disgust on his face. “Think of how much spunk is on that.”

Alfred rolled his eyes, stuck out his tongue, at Matthew. The (not so) little shit. He still kicked the comforter down, though, as subtly as he could manage. Didn’t want Matthew getting a superiority complex or anything.

Sometime later, in the middle of the night, Alfred rolled over onto his stomach and nearly went crashing off the bed. It was enough to yank him completely from dreamless oblivion. Besides Matthew’s snoring and the whir of the heater, the room held its silence.

Alfred checked his phone, for the time. It was nearly three in the morning. He groaned, should’ve put the phone back and gone back to sleep, but his eye caught on the scroll of notifications. Notably, a text from Arthur.

 **IGGY POP <3 (1:11am): **u get back on the 30th rite?

He stared at it for so long that his vision went blurry. It was all so ominous. The time, for one. Arthur, superstitious as he was, would never send something exactly at 1:11 (or 11:11, for that matter) unless it was important, weighty. Also, the single text. Arthur didn’t _do_ single texts, preferred to spout off in a rambly style that Alfred secretly found amusing, especially when he sent words by the letter. And, of course, that Arthur was texting Alfred at all. That sent hope racing through him, combating with the nausea churning in his stomach and—

Oh, God, Alfred was going to be sick.

He nearly yanked the charger out of the wall when he grabbed his phone, not even trying to be quiet at the first taste of bile in the back of his throat. He made it to the bathroom just in time.

When he was done, Alfred sat back on his heels, blindly reaching for the handle with one hand and swiping over his lips with the other. _Eugh,_ the inside of his mouth tasted like battery acid. He shut the toilet lid and pressed his forehead against the cool porcelain, for a second.

He stood, on unsteady legs, to dig his toothbrush out of his toiletries bag. He brushed and spat into the sink without looking his reflection in the eye.

Alfred felt around in the dark for his discarded phone, which had landed somewhere on the floor, near the sunken bathtub. He debated not replying, but figured that, despite his nocturnal tendencies, Arthur had to be passed out by now, and wouldn’t see his response until morning.

 **Alfred (3:17am):** yes. Why?

The three _typing…_ dots appeared immediately, much to Alfred’s surprise, and then disappeared. Reappeared, disappeared, reappeared, disa—

“Alfred?” Matthew’s confused voice came from the doorway, and then the blinding, white light of the overhead came crashing down on Alfred. Accustomed to the darkness, he squinted against its force.

“Are you okay?” Matthew asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He looked so _young_ like this, sleep shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, bare-footed.

“Yeah,” said Alfred, sheepishly, “must’ve just had something that didn’t agree with me at dinner.”

Matthew’s brow scrunched—he seemed ready to argue the point—but before he got the chance, Alfred’s ringtone blared—

_God save our gracious Queen…_

—and _that_ made Matthew’s eyes go wide as saucepans.

 _Fuck,_ Arthur had changed his ringtone a few months back and Alfred could never figure out how to fix it. Not for lack of trying.

(“I’ll go and put my contact’s ringtone as the Star-Spangled Banner, see how you like it!” Alfred had grumbled, unusually ruffled by the whole thing.

“You will not!” Arthur’d screeched back, and then they’d bickered until there was nothing left to say, all that could be done was funnel their anger into a brutal kiss.)

_Long live our noble Queen…_

“Gotta take this,” Alfred mumbled, pushing past his brother and angling his phone so he wouldn’t see the contact picture. (A selfie, of Alfred and Arthur on the beach. It’d been their one and only getaway, for one night, over the past summer. It might’ve been the best night of Alfred’s life. He wouldn’t know, he’d lived so little.)

Alfred picked up immediately, because he didn’t want the phone to stop ringing before he got a chance to answer.

He said, before Arthur could speak, “one sec.” The sleep-soft “okay,” in response was nearly enough to send Alfred’s blood rushing south.

Once he was down the hall and around a corner, far out of earshot from both Matthew and his Dad’s rooms, he said, “what are you still doing awake? It’s nearly six in the morning!”

A scoff, from Arthur. He was waking up, two time zones away.

“You’re one to talk! What time is it, three, four, up there?” Silence, for a moment. Then, “I keep finding your things.”

Oh. Alfred swallowed heavily, leaned against the ice machine for support. He didn’t do it on purpose—most of the time—but whenever they spent time at Arthur’s, Alfred always forgot stuff. His math textbook. A jacket. That carnival prize glass bracelet, its elastic stretched out and beads scratched. It’s not like he lost track of them, not like he was never going to see Arthur again. He’d be back there next week, Alfred had always figured.

Except, that wasn’t the case anymore, was it?

“Whose fault is that?” Alfred asked, even though he already knew Arthur’s answer. An old habit of Alfred’s, and hard to break.

“Yours, I should think,” said Arthur, going for annoyed but coming out weary, instead.

Alfred couldn’t process this conversation, had a million other useless thoughts pushing at his lips. What came out was, “why are you up this late, anyhow?”

“Maybe I’m fucking someone, what do you care?” Something about Alfred’s response irritated Arthur for real, now, because he turned downright nasty, voice taking on a mocking quality. “Can I drop your shite off or not, oh ye master of avoidance? Don’t want Daddy to find out about us, now that you’re out of the woods for good, hmm?”

Alfred’s throat went tight and not because he’d been puking up his lower intestine ten minutes ago. He blinked at the pinprick of tears building in his eyes.

As the silence stretched, so did Arthur’s impatience.

“What, don’t have anything to say? Afraid that dear old Dad will hear you chatting up a… what was it he called me, that time? Oh, a ‘limp-wristed low-class nobody’?”

Arthur sounded halfway close to crying, himself, on the other end of the line. Maybe that should’ve made Alfred feel better, somehow, that he was hurting just as much as Alfred was. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Alfred just wanted him _happy_ and _here._

(That’s all he ever wanted.)

Alfred swallowed his emotions, swallowed his pride, to say, “you can swing by on New Year’s Eve, during the day. Everyone else will be out.”

“Francis invited me out on a date tonight, can you believe that?” said Arthur, in lieu of response. “You know, they call it French kissing for a reason—”

Logically, Alfred knew Arthur was just doing this to get a rise out of him. None of it was true, Alfred reminded himself, pulling the phone away from his ear. 

It worked, though. Alfred hung up on him.

And promptly yelled, smashing his hand against the ice machine in a raw release of frustration.

A few pieces of half-melted ice skittered out of the machine and onto the carpet. Under different circumstances, Alfred would’ve laughed. As it was, he sunk down onto the floor next to them, already seeping into the carpet, face propped between his knees.

Alfred had never hated himself more than in that moment. And he couldn’t pinpoint why, just that he did and he didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if it _could_ be fixed.

By the time he returned to the room, it was nearly four. He’d locked himself out, of course, hadn’t thought to take a key, but Matthew answered after the first impatient knock. He looked as tired as Alfred felt, deep circles beneath his eyes, but he just stepped back into the room to let Alfred pass him by.

“Tomorrow,” Matthew said. Alfred turned around to look at him, silhouetted in the doorway. “I want to talk.”

Alfred nodded and returned to his bed. The first rays of sun crept along the floor before he was finally able to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Alfred and Lovino were narrative foils! (oh my god, they were narrative foils.)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments/kudos on the last chapter! I love y'all <3


	3. Three

Operating on three hours of sleep and a black coffee from the breakfast bar wasn’t Alfred’s ideal way to start off his excursion with Emma. His fingers shook when he raised a hand to push his sunglasses up off his face. He felt hungover—nauseous, unsteady, wincing against the overheads—save for the fact that he hadn’t even been drunk the night before. All consequence, no fun. Alfred hated it.

Accompanied by his dad, Alfred greeted Emma in the lobby. Matthew was nowhere to be found, had presumably ran off to the slopes earlier that morning, long before Alfred had been up.

Matthew wanted to _talk._ Alfred could only guess about what, but given the previous night’s events, he had his suspicions. If he thought about it for too long—the events of last night and before, even, out on the balcony during Alfred’s tabloid-worthy tell-all moment—Alfred felt ready to bolt for the toilet. He plastered a smile on his face, instead.

“Hi, Emma,” Alfred said, ignoring the sharp look Dad gave because he was supposed to _use a lady’s last name, Alfred._ Except he couldn’t remember her last name, unless it really was “Osborne”, so it was a moot point.

Emma didn’t seem to mind. She barely acknowledged him, just smiled weakly in response. Alfred couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed.

“Ah, Mr. Jones. I trust you’ll take good care of her today?” Osborne said.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Alfred said, with a lazy mock salute. Osborne raised a disapproving eyebrow at that.

He waited until Dad shuffled off with his business prospect, ready to work through their contract all day or whatever, to turn back to Emma.

She wasn’t smiling anymore, and Alfred couldn’t discern why. She just looked sad, hunched in on herself in an overlarge coat and snow boots.

Alfred sighed, finished off his coffee. He crushed the paper cup in his fist. His other hand, unoccupied, drifted toward his front pocket, where he’d stashed his phone. He wouldn’t have service once they left the hotel, where the Wi-Fi wouldn’t reach, but it he’d taken it off silent anyway. Still waiting for that little _ding,_ signaling a text. A text from Arthur. Not that he’d heard anything all morning or expected to until they saw each other again in person.

Alfred retreated, ran his hand through his hair instead.

“So,” he said, trying to sound energetic, cheerful, despite the circumstances, “where to first?”

* * *

 ** _For the rest of the summer,_** Alfred spent almost all his free time with Arthur. It was an uphill battle, which involved a lot of bribing on Alfred’s end and working around Alfred’s terrible practice schedule, on Arthur’s.

Arthur put up a good fight, pretended that he had more important things to be doing, but Alfred knew better. For all his protesting, Arthur came to their hangouts without complaint, even when the plans Alfred concocted were out of his general wheelhouse. At least, Alfred assumed that trying to make an alien-themed movie with only their phone cameras and Tony as a practical effect was out of Arthur’s general wheelhouse.

Come to think of it, Arthur seemed to have an affinity for scoring their movie when they cut it together on an ad-riddled editing app.

“No, no, _this_ carries the suspense of this scene! Listen to the way the artist synths this bit—”

“Arthur, dude, I’m pretty sure this is a remix of the _Cars_ soundtrack—”

The finished product was Alfred’s greatest shame. Arthur, on the other hand, hosted a viewing party. Only Alistair and Matthew could make it to the grand debut. Alfred couldn’t say he minded that no one else showed up. Arthur’s e-vite had been extensive; he’d managed to get Alfred’s grandma’s email.

In the beginning, Matthew was a frequent participant in their planning and scheming, letting himself get dragged into Alfred and Arthur’s chaos energy as an unfortunate third wheel.

(He third wheeled as a _friend;_ he was their Luke to Alfred’s Han and Arthur’s Leia—because Han and Leia spent all of _The Empire Strikes Back_ fighting the good fight together and were a dynamic duo, forget that they wound up together in the end—)

It was actually Matthew’s idea that they attend Alistair’s gig. The band—the infamous Whining Bagpipes (Alfred thought the name needed work)—scored the opening spot for a well-known regional band. Arthur was already at the bar when they arrived, nursing a water and showing off his smudged black “X”.

“Aw, you got carded,” Alfred said, slapping the counter to get the bartender’s attention, “that blows.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, twisted on the stool to watch Alistair and his bandmates scramble onstage to finish the necessary pre-show setup.

“So what? You did, too.”

Arthur nodded to Alfred’s own “X”, on the back of his hand.

“Yeah, but I didn’t try to wipe mine off.”

Flushing, Arthur looked away.

Matthew’s phone rang, disrupting their conversation. Matthew, who’d been sitting on Alfred’s other side and going largely ignored up until now, scrambled to pick it up.

“Hey! How’s it going?” he said, chattering into the receiver. “Eh… eh… no, I’m just… out.”

Alfred exchanged a side-eyed, conspiratorial look with Arthur. Could it be that Matthew was talking to a _girl?_

Onstage, one of Alistair’s bandmates connected the mic. Harsh feedback burst from the speakers. Alfred couldn’t resist covering his ears.

Alistair stepped up to the mic, looking sheepish. He tapped it, and said, in his oh-so-recognizable voice, “is this thing on?”

It was on, and loud enough to make Alfred’s bones rattle. Alistair winced, and immediately dropped to his knees to mess with the cords.

Matthew mumbled something near unintelligible into his phone, saying, “no, no, it is the Flying Kazoos… I mean, the Flying Bagpipes? The Whining Kazoos?”

He hung up not long after.

Hands on his thighs, Arthur leaned forward to stare Matthew down.

“Matthew,” he said, drawing out Matthew’s name, edging on teasing, “was that somebody special?”

Catching on, Alfred nudged his brother’s shoulder. “Yeah, little bro, anyone worth writing home about?”

“Eh…” Matthew paused, taken aback. “It’s just Francis, guys, c’mon. He wanted to see if I could hang out.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, face going curiously blank, “what a twat.”

There wasn’t much room for conversation, then, because Alistair had finally figured out his technical difficulties and the bagpipes were whiny, indeed.

At the end of their set, Alistair hopped down into the crowd to talk to them.

“So, you dragged Iggy out of the house, tha’ right?” Alistair said, noogie-ing a protesting Arthur.

“ _Iggy_?” Alfred asked.

Alistair’s face reflected Alfred’s glee. He released Arthur—who rushed to straighten his rumpled collar—but kept the maniacal grin.

“When we were kids—” said Alistair.

“Alistair—” Arthur protested.

“—Arthur here couldn’t pronounce the word “England”—”

“—I’m not above blackmail, Alistair—”

“—'Oh, Arthur, tell me again, where do we live, luv?’, Mum would say—”

“—what about the time you pissed on the fridge—”

“—“Iggyland!” Arthur would say. Gave ‘im the nickname to match. Isn’t that right, Igs?”

Alfred smothered his laugh when Arthur glared at him.

“I know where you sleep,” Arthur said, tone harsher than the back-and-forth teasing a moment before. He turned on his heel, and said with a half-hearted, “I need some air.”

“Yeah, run away, Igs!” Alistair goaded, not picking up on the extent of his brother’s distress.

Matthew also didn’t seem to notice, too busy scrolling through his phone.

Normally, Alfred would be right there with them, not picking up on the nuances of a situation like this. But, after spending so much time with Arthur, Alfred’d gotten to know all the guy’s tells and bad social habits. Since Arthur was an unusually grumpy person, but even _he_ couldn’t possibly be that pissed off all of the time. Alfred learned early on that half the time Arthur’s annoyance was just a mask, to hide the hurt brewing beneath.

Alfred glanced in the general direction where Arthur had melded into the crowd, considering. _Ugh,_ did Alfred have to do everything himself?

“Be right back,” Alfred said, before booking it toward the exit.

The summer night brushed over him like a quilt. A line stretched outside the venue, starting around the block and ending at the ticket counter. Alfred skimmed the groups of people loitering outside, but found that he didn’t need to look far; Arthur sat, chin propped in his hand, on the curb.

Alfred plopped down next to him with an easygoing smile. Arthur, as usual, scowled back.

Alfred knocked his knees together, a nervous release of energy. He waited for Arthur to say something.

Arthur, naturally, didn’t.

( _Ugh,_ did Alfred have to do _everything?!_ )

“This one time,” Alfred said, sympathetically, “when I first got glasses—oh, jeez, I must’ve been six or seven? Anyway, I got my glasses and all these kids at school started calling me Four-Eyes Texas. I cried for, like, a week straight, no joke. To this day, I’m not sure where the Texas part came in, but, hey, that’s showbiz, baby!”

Alfred finger-gunned, hoping against all hope that his little speech had boosted Arthur’s morale.

“I’m not upset about the nickname, Alfred!” Arthur snapped.

No such luck.

“Oh. Gotcha.” Alfred knocked his knees together, again, eager for Arthur to continue the conversation. “What _are_ you upset about?”

“So bloody American, no tact…” Arthur mumbled, under his breath.

Alfred pretended not to hear. It was best to gloss over Arthur’s little quips. Alfred was still figuring that detail out.

Arthur rubbed his hands across his face, peeking at Alfred over his palms. Something flared in Alfred’s gut at the intensity of it, Arthur’s green irises shadowed and unwavering.

“He wants to move back to Scotland,” Arthur said at last, sounding bitter. He dropped his hands, looked away. “I mean, what’s even there for him, sheep?”

He was worried about being abandoned, about Alistair leaving him behind, Alfred realized.

“D’you think he’ll leave soon?” Alfred asked.

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t think he knows what he wants.”

Alfred nodded. Wanting to provide Arthur some comfort, but not trusting himself to say the right thing, Alfred leaned heavily against Arthur, shoulder-to-shoulder.

Arthur jumped but remained in place. He leaned back, absorbing all of Alfred’s heat, the jerk.

“Alfred…” said Arthur. His breath ghosted over Alfred’s lips, hot even in the charged air. Arthur’s eyes were wide and imploring, scanning over Alfred’s face and, for once, open in their honesty, too. For a second, Alfred could’ve sworn Arthur’s gaze dropped down to his lips.

Aware, suddenly, of how close they were sitting, Alfred pulled away. He shouldn’t do things like that, he reminded himself, casually touch his bros in such a soft way. And that’s what Arthur was, one of the _bros._

Something buzzed beneath his skin. Nerves, probably. Alfred’s teeth were nearly chattering with it. He bit his tongue, hard, tasted blood. If he looked at Arthur now, Alfred might shake apart.

“I’m cold,” said Alfred, purposefully cheerful. When he stood he used Arthur’s shoulder to leverage himself off the ground. “Wanna go back in?”

Alfred, aware of Arthur’s eyes still trained on the side of his face, stared pointedly forward. He would offer Arthur a hand, to get up, but then he’d see Alfred’s nonsensical panic. Alfred waited for Arthur to recover and lift himself off the ground before leading them back into the bar.

* * *

The backseat of the taxi was wide enough that Alfred and Emma didn’t have to touch. Emma crossed her legs and her thighs didn’t even brush Alfred’s. Another guy—a more red-blooded guy, Alfred supposed—would be disappointed. As it was, Alfred just felt relieved.

He’d shown her the slopes, from the front of the high-rise as they waited for the car to arrive. The view wasn’t great, they couldn’t see far down into the sloping valley from that vantage point, but Alfred wanted to move on as quick as possible. He was still bitter at missing out on a full day of skiing for this sham of a date.

The adjacent town was small, and tied to the seasonal tourism that the ski lodge brought in. The people had voted to erect a small statue of fucking _Santa Claus_ in their center square. The statue was half-hidden by a few inches of snow, today, but Santa’s perky little hat and rosy cheeks were still visible. Emma eyed it as they passed; if the furrow of her brows was anything to go by, she was just as confused by its existence as Alfred was.

“Christmas shop, Christmas shop, Christmas/Thanksgiving/Halloween, that’s new…” Alfred listed off as they went, store-front to store-front. Occasionally, Emma paused to glance inside at the baubles on display.

Alfred’s phone remained, silent and untouched, in his pocket. Resisting the urge to check it anyway challenged Alfred’s resolve. Emma was supposed to help distract him, although she was currently doing a piss-poor job of it.

“You know, if you want to go in, we totally can,” Alfred said, after they’d paused in front of one storefront for what must’ve been ten minutes. He pulled the collar of his bomber jacket up to protect the lower half of his face from the wind.

Emma retreated from the window, unbending her waist, causing a thick wave of brown hair to fall and obscure her expression.

“That’s alright,” she said. Her accent elongated her _r_ ’s, stretched them like taffy. “Are we almost finished here?”

“We can be, if that’s what you wanna do,” Alfred said. He would rather be trapped in his hotel room, alone, even though they’d barely been away for an hour. There was no use in pretending otherwise.

Emma seemed to struggle with what to say, for a minute. She settled on, “I… I am not trying to end this early.”

“You totally are,” Alfred said, loud enough that Emma flinched, “but don’t sweat it.”

Maybe he should’ve been less direct. Emma flushed, cast her eyes to the ground. She had no reason to be embarrassed, Alfred wanted to reassure, but couldn’t find the words.

A little ways up the block, someone exited a shop. Alfred recognized the bell’s tinkle, followed by a sugary smell wafting in the air. Alfred sniffed, once, to make sure that he wasn’t imagining things.

“What is it?” asked Emma, glancing down the street, curiosity piqued.

Tradition had never controlled Alfred; he was far more convinced by impulse. However, his annual voyage had never been without a trip to the bakery just around the corner. Mom’s absence tainted things, but even traditions were malleable, given time.

Alfred’s stomach grumbled. It was almost noon and he hadn’t eaten anything today. Well, that sealed the deal, then.

“I know I’m capital-L “Lame” company,” Alfred said, with a reassuring smile, “but I promise our next stop will make up for it!”

Emma returned his smile, then, a small, apologetic curl to her lips. Thankful that she didn’t try to verbalize her apology, Alfred stuck out his arm. After a moment of hesitation, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and let him lead her down a sidewalk he’d traversed since he was a kid.

* * *

 ** _After Alistair’s gig,_** Matthew’s presence at Alfred and Arthur’s hangouts slowly dwindled and died out. Alfred invited him still, always did, always would, but was confused by Matthew’s sudden rejection. That was, until Alfred saw Francis pick Matthew up from their house one afternoon in early August.

Alfred, who knew Matthew and Francis were casual acquaintances through their involvement with the newspaper but unsure as to the _true_ nature of their “friendship” (whatever the hell that entailed), confronted his brother about it that very evening.

“Hey,” Alfred said, sliding into Matthew’s room with faux casualness, “whatcha doing?”

Matthew, not doing much of anything, looked up from his phone with a smile.

“Nothing important. Why, what’s up?”

“No-thing,” Alfred said, drawing it out and trying not to overthink how he might approach this topic. “Saw that you went out today.”

“Yeah…” Matthew trailed off.

“With Francis.”

“Yes.”

“Bonnefoy.”

“The one and only, that’s right.”

“Well,” Alfred said, twiddling his thumbs to (stealthily) avoid Matthew’s imploring gaze, “I’ll never understand it, bro, and honestly if you weren’t _you_ I’d probably give you the ol’ one-two—” at this, Alfred mimed a punch, “but you do you!”

Matthew had unfortunately inherited the Jones ability to raise his eyebrows to his hairline and was now showing off that exact trait, mouth popped open in abject horror.

“You saw me get into the car with Francis today,” said Matthew, once he’d regained the ability to talk.

“Yes.”

“And because of that, you think we’re dating?”

“I… um… yeah? Aren’t you?”

Matthew didn’t say anything, didn’t seem offended (which, _Alfred_ would be, if their positions were reversed. Matthew was way too nice). He just stared at Alfred, uncomprehendingly.

Alfred trailed a finger over the dips and grooves in Matthew’s comforter to avoid looking at him.

“Be-because you’re not spending any time with us?” Alfred justified, to fill the tense silence.

“You’re way off base,” said Matthew, suddenly, leaning forward and disrupting Alfred. “I needed a ride to Mom’s office and he offered to pick me up. He’s temping for her right now to make some money.”

This was the first Alfred’d heard about Francis’ job with On the Ball Marketing (pun straight from Mom’s genius brain), but that didn’t answer why Matthew had sudden avoidance of the _Alfred and Arthur Show._

“So… he’s not your friend?” Alfred asked, feeling dumb.

“No, we’re friends.” Matthew paused. “Look, you know how Arthur and Francis dated, right?”

Alfred tried not to think about it, anymore, not now that he and Arthur were friends. Before he met Arthur, he found himself thinking of his relationship with Francis often. He also openly mocked them, whenever the topic came up at school. And that was before Alfred had confirmed the guy’s existence, much less known a thing about him.

(Now, Alfred knew too much. That Arthur’s favorite drink was Earl Grey, but he could chug an energy drink in ten seconds flat when he craved the caffeine rush. That he’d dyed his hair blue when he was fourteen, in open rebellion against his family’s move to the ‘States. That he had a picture of the Queen in his wallet, but was also, somehow, anti-establishment.)

Alfred still felt uncomfortable about Arthur and Francis’ relationship, but it was a different discomfort, the sort he didn’t want to unpack. The sort that was best left under wraps, a twisted mess of confusion and anger and green envy buried underneath. Inexplicably, Alfred knew that it would be ten times worse, that tight-chested feeling, if Arthur and Francis were still dating.

In some ways, Arthur’s romantic history made their friendship easier. Alfred felt pressured, when he spent time with his other friends, to brag about the girls he was talking to. And, at the moment, Alfred wasn’t pursuing anyone.

Okay, there was Stacy, Alfred’s on-again off-again fling. But she didn’t count since she was away for the summer and wouldn’t be back until cheerleading practice resumed. Despite Alfred’s efforts, flirting with girls always felt awkward, especially when he knew, sooner or later, he’d be _on_ again with her. Still, his football friends expected him to hit on other chicks, to have someone else in the works at all times, and Alfred hated the pressure. He was a lot of things, but disloyal wasn’t one of them.

Once, Alfred had been afraid of being seen speaking to guys like Arthur, like Francis, in a way that might make his peers think that _he_ was also… But Alfred liked spending time with Arthur, even when they bickered and disagreed. So. Alfred supposed this arrangement was alright, so long as Arthur didn’t overstep, once school started up and things were back to normal. 

(Alfred interacted with a few of the other gay kids at school—Feliciano and Lovino, mostly—just to show them he wasn’t _like them._ Just to show everyone what he thought of dudes fucking dudes.

That wasn’t Alfred’s only reason for kicking the Vargas brothers around. Guys like that had to be set straight… _ha, straight, that was a good one…_ or else they’d think what they were doing was _okay._ Which it wasn’t.

(Every time Alfred thought of it, thought of _them,_ it made him uncomfortable, a sickening curl of raw emotion blooming in his gut. Alfred _hated_ how Feliciano and Lovino could be _proud_ of who they were and who they loved.))

“Yeah,” Alfred said, at last, licking his dry lips.

Matthew studied him before shrugging, a minute twitch of his shoulders.

“I mean I like both of them, don’t misunderstand, but I was friends with Francis first.” Then, in a louder pitch that could almost be Alfred’s own, “it’s bro code, ya dig?”

Alfred blinked, laughed, and said, “okay, okay, just don’t be a total stranger, okay?”

Matthew chuckled. “I’m not ghosting you, I just feel like a divorced dad neglecting poor Francis. I’ve gotta make it up to him somehow.”

(Alfred felt weirdly relieved. That Matthew wasn’t… that he wasn’t into dudes, and also that he wasn’t dating _Francis,_ of all people. Honestly, that might’ve been the biggest test to Alfred’s patience, Matthew dating Francis.)

Caught up in his thoughts, Alfred nearly missed what Matthew said next, under his breath, a clear afterthought.

“Besides, you and Arthur clearly have your own thing going on. I’ve done enough third wheeling to last a lifetime.”

“Woah woah woah,” Alfred said, waving his arms as if doing so could somehow dissipate the panic crushing his windpipe, “what do you mean, we have our own thing going on?”

“Nothing,” said Matthew, slowly, placatingly, “just that you guys are friends, is all.”

Oh. Alfred was an idiot. He forced a smile onto his face. Alfred had always been a good actor, when he could get his emotions in check for longer than five seconds. Never had he appreciated that talent more than in this moment. He wrangled his racing heart into submission.

“Barely,” Alfred said, “Arthur’s just always going along with whatever I’ve got planned, man.”

(Also, not entirely true. The viewing party came to mind.

Also, Alfred did consider them friends. It didn’t feel that weird to admit, either, at least not to Matthew.)

The long, scrutinizing look from Matthew made Alfred wriggle in place, though.

“Whatever you two are—” _Oh,_ Alfred hated the way he’d said that. “—it doesn’t make a difference to me. I probably won’t be hanging out much, though, so long as Francis is in town.”

Hey, Alfred wasn’t complaining about Matthew’s absence. That just meant he and Arthur could get up to all kinds of shenanigans without judgement.

A few days later, though, Alfred sorely missed Matthew, who was good at settling any argument that sprouted between Alfred and Arthur. An argument was growing now, that was for dammed dure. Alfred sat in Arthur’s blissfully quiet bedroom—Alistair had gathered up the kids and taken them outside when Alfred arrived—arms crossed. He hated horror, and that was what Arthur had queued up.

“I only came over here because you said we were going to that new superhero movie,” Arthur whined, eyes pointedly directed at the ceiling. They hadn’t even started the movie yet, were still stuck on the menu screen. The movie’s villain, a ghost with blackened teeth, leered at them from the corner of the screen.

“ _Superheroes_?” Arthur said, turning to give him a disgusted look. “I thought you were joking. You actually like that substanceless drivel?”

“Uh, yeah, dude, ‘cause good always wins in the end. My movies make your movies look super gay.”

Arthur froze at the _gay_ comment, eyes snapping to meet Alfred’s but otherwise not moving from where he was sprawled out against his headboard. The bedroom was small, and given the messy top bunk and band posters, Alfred figured he shared the space with Alistair. Arthur had offered to take top bunk to watch the movie, which Alfred shot down; the angle on the TV was no good, from up there. At least, that’s what he assumed.

Arthur glared at Alfred, who shrunk back against his end of the bed, pressed his lips together as if he had to physically restrain himself from biting back.

“Right, and watching movies about men in spandex isn’t gay,” Arthur said after a minute. “We don’t have to watch this, though, if you’re too chickenshit.”

Alfred puffed his chest up, to show that he wasn’t scared of no ghost!

“Ain’t no cowards in the West.” Alfred mimed shooting a revolver into the air.

Arthur rolled his eyes and pressed _play_ on the remote.

Twenty minutes in, and Alfred regretted ever agreeing to this movie. Arthur should’ve conceded to Alfred’s original plan, because then _one_ of them would’ve been having fun.

“—special effects aren’t even that goo—ieeeeee!” Alfred’s criticism took a harsh turn into screechville. He pulled a pillow over his face. He caught a whiff of Arthur’s shampoo and something else, something sweet, in the soft cotton pillowcase.

“Blimey, would you shut up?” Arthur griped. “That wasn’t even a jump scare.”

Alfred let the pillow drop so he could stare, dead-eyed, at Arthur. Arthur glared right back, the blue-grey light from the TV giving him a ghostly color. _He would fit in onscreen with the rest of the ghouls,_ Alfred thought. He gulped and sat back, turned his attention to the movie.

Twenty minutes after _that,_ and they were wrapped up in a tangle of pillows and blankets, hands over their faces to peek through their fingers.

“Oh, don’t go in there, oh man, why are these characters always so dumb—”

“It isn’t real, why’d I let you agree to this, it isn’t real, it isn’t real, it isn’t—”

The character in the movie—along with Alfred and Arthur—startled when two hands reached out of the darkness and clapped next to her head. It was accompanied by a high violin note that Alfred should’ve been expecting, considering his vague knowledge of horror movie tropes. As it was, he screamed and jumped into Arthur’s lap, arms wrapped around his friend’s shoulders.

“There-might-be-one-coward-in-the-West,” Alfred said in one breath.

“I would leave, I swear. Just move out, what’re the ghosts going to do, follow them around the globe?”

Alfred could probably provide a list of ten movies that circumvented that issue, but he let it slide because he was currently freaking the fuck out. He’d put himself _right_ into Arthur’s lap.

Oh, no, what if Arthur took this as an invitation to start hitting on Alfred? To be fair, they were on Arthur’s bed. Given the circumstances, Alfred would need to let him down gently. It freaked him out, that Arthur might _flirt_ with him, but Alfred liked the guy and he wasn’t a _total_ dick.

But Arthur’s attention had already shifted back to the screen. He wasn’t paying Alfred any mind, too caught up in the movie he claimed to hate so much.

To extract himself now, Alfred reasoned, would be too obvious. Besides, Arthur’s lap was sort of comfy. Alfred could’ve shifted, briefly considered it, but that might put his ass in direct crosshairs with Arthur’s crotch which… _nope._ Alfred sat rigidly, legs thrown over Arthur’s and arms still wrapped around his shoulders, and tried to keep his breathing under control. Arthur’s face was so, _so_ close to Alfred’s, and he could probably hear any noise Alfred made. His lips looked blue, in this light, lower lip slightly chapped but still plump—

“Oh god, the ghosts _did_ follow them!” Arthur said, throwing his hands up in defeat and dislodging one of Alfred’s arms in the process. “What a bloody ripoff, I refuse to watch any more of this shite. Gives the genre a bad name, it does…”

Arthur shook Alfred off, seemingly unbothered that Alfred had spent the past twenty minutes up in his personal business. He hadn’t tried anything funny, though. Should Alfred be offended by that? He was one hot guy, who wouldn’t want to be with him?

Or would it be better to feel relieved, since Alfred wasn’t interested in dudes? He didn’t know, and also felt neither of those things—he was just disappointed, mostly.

Alfred got up. He checked his watch. There was still time to catch the three o’clock showing, if they hurried.

“I’m going to see _my_ movie, if you’d like to come?” said Alfred.

Arthur looked up at him, expression unreadable in the semi-darkness. Alfred thought he might be smiling.

“Yeah, alright. But you’re buying me popcorn for all that nonsense you just put me through.”

If Arthur were a girl, Alfred would’ve said something cheesy, like, _It’s a date!_

* * *

“Is that Alfred Jones?” The woman greeted them from behind the counter, throwing her arms wide when they stepped into the bakery. “I was wondering when you were going to show!”

The bakery—known just as _the bakery,_ even by the locals—was run by a husband and wife duo, Mr. and Mrs. Klaus. Mr. Klaus doubled as the town’s Santa; he had a full, white beard to match the role. And kindly Mrs. Klaus never forgot a face, especially not her most enthusiastic customers.

Alfred _loved_ Christmas (well, usually. This year, it was difficult to muster the energy, given the whole _Arthur_ thing.) and he attributed it to Mr. and Mrs. Klaus’ influence.

“Mrs. Klaus!” Alfred said, walking around the counter to give her a hug. “Boy am I glad to see you.”

“I’ve missed my favorite customer,” she said, pinching his cheek. Alfred, who’d endured many years with handsy relatives, managed to not cringe away. “Speaking of, where is your brother? Ah, but you’re a close second.”

That startled a laugh from him, the first genuine one in weeks. Alfred reached for Emma’s hand and dragged her forward.

“Emma, this is Mrs. Klaus,” he said, with a gesture toward the white-haired woman in her red fur-trimmed dress and apron, “she runs the shop.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, dear,” Mrs. Klaus said as she returned to her place behind the counter. “Alfred, is this a… _lady friend_ of yours?”

Now Alfred _did_ cringe, exchanging a side-eyed glance with Emma. She seemed just as uncomfortable with Mrs. Klaus’ assumption as Alfred was. Interesting.

“Uh, nope! Toootally platonic,” Alfred said, before realizing that he still had her hand clasped tight. He released her, taking a pointed step toward the pastry case. “Say, what new specialty coffees do you have?”

They settled by the window, the perfect people-watching (and, conveniently, conversation-avoiding) spot. As an extra measure, Alfred took his sweet time chewing his cinnamon bun.

Emma trailed her finger across the chocolate-dusted rim of her coffee. Her fingers were slim with short, red-painted fingernails. She licked the chocolate off and then picked up her cup, taking a deep sip.

“You must know this place well,” she said, once she’d set the mug back onto its saucer.

Alfred cast a fond look about the shop; from Mrs. Klaus assisting new customers from behind the counter to the string of garland looped around the front window to the twinkling red and yellow lights.

“We’ve been coming here since we were kids,” Alfred told her, once he swallowed. “Mrs. Klaus is basically my Christmas-time grandma. Way less smelly than my actual grandma, too.”

Emma just looked at him. Alfred swallowed heavily.

“They make a mean chocolate-chip cookie,” Alfred rushed to cover any previous awkwardness. He tilted his head at the chocolate cookie she’d bought, which sat, untouched, on the table. “Mrs. Klaus makes them herself.”

Emma broke the cookie apart. Gooey chocolate stretched between the broken pieces.

“You’re a lot of things, Alfred, but you’re no liar,” Emma said. She took another bite. “What do you think their secret is?”

“Love,” Alfred said, dreamily, before catching Emma’s amused look and coughing to cover his slip. “Ahem, or cinnamon. Not sure.”

“Oh, I love cinnamon desserts,” Emma said, lighting up at that. So, the way to a girl’s heart really _was_ through her stomach! “There’s this one, it’s called banann ladob. You might not have heard of it, it’s fried banana and coconut milk and sugar, and I always say it’s best with a sprinkle of cinnamon, but Michelle always says—”

It was the most she’d spoken all afternoon. As if becoming aware that she was babbling, Emma clamped up, flushing deep enough to match her nail polish. She took a prim sip of her coffee.

“Who’s Michelle?” Alfred asked.

Emma’s eyes rocketed to his, wide with terror Alfred’d seen in the mirror whenever anyone got _too close._ To the truth. To Alfred’s deepest, most shameful secrets. Not _Arthur_ (Alfred had never been ashamed of Arthur) but Alfred himself, the dichotomy of his person; the hypocrisy. The homophobia and the homo, as Alfred had once bitterly dubbed it.

It wasn’t shame in Emma’s eyes, now, but the familiar fear lingered.

“She’s a… friend of mine, from Seychelles,” she said.

Oh, she was a _horrible_ liar.

Alfred leaned in, a bit, kept his voice light when he said, “she sounds like _some_ friend.”

He gave her what he always sought, in situations like this—an out. Alfred always took it, scrabbled for some excuse even when he didn’t need to, fear superseding reason. Maybe it was cowardice.

But Emma, much to Alfred’s surprise, didn’t take the bait. Instead, she clenched her jaw and glared at him down her nose.

“No, she is not. She’s my _girlfriend,”_ she said, steel in her voice, “and if you have a problem with that, then I’m afraid I’ll have to tell my father that the deal between our companies will not work.”

Alfred gulped—he was glad he wasn’t attracted to women, because _what the fuck girls are terrifying_ —and gave her an easy smile.

“My lips are sealed,” he said, miming locking his lips and tossing away the key.

Emma regarded him for a minute.

“Okay,” she said, nerves returning to her as she drummed her fingers on the table.

Wanting to talk but not wanting to break his bit, Alfred mimed looking for the invisible key, holding it up to the light, and unlocking his lips before saying, “do you have a picture of her? If you’re okay sharing.”

She debated, or so it seemed, but in the end her good faith won out. She took out her phone, thumbing through the pictures. She turned her screen toward him.

A dark skinned girl smiled widely in the picture, her hair tied neatly into a dark red headdress, decorated with multi-colored beads. Emma swiped to the next picture, a selfie, where Emma’s nose dotted with freckles and Michelle’s long black hair was tied into two ponytails, framing her face. They were cheek to cheek, looking at one another rather than the camera.

“That’s adorable,” Alfred gushed, clasping his hands beneath his chin. “How’d you meet?”

“On one of my father’s business trips.” Emma had a faraway look in her eye. “She… was a dancer, for one of those tourist groups. I wanted to see if she knew a local spot to relax, but there was a language barrier, until I discovered we both speak French. She went with me to that non-touristy beach and now we are here.”

“Wow,” Alfred said. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did your dad set you up on a date with me? If you’re with someone, that is.”

He was wondering, himself. It was the wrong question to ask, apparently, because Emma crossed her arms, scowling. All previous softness completely disappeared from the curve of her mouth. It now pointed sharply downward.

“He doesn’t know.”

Alfred could say a million things to that— _mine doesn’t either_ —but remained close-lipped. He took a sip from his now-cold coffee, felt the caffeine rush beneath his skin with the rest of his shaky resolve.

In an effort to recover the conversation, somehow, Alfred said, teasingly, “so? Been back since? Also, where is that, Seychelles?”

When Emma flushed, this time, Alfred knew that her embarrassment ran deep. Her amusement, too, because she gave a coy little shrug, picking up her mug with her pinky out. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

* * *

 ** _“American rock music is so much better than this British stuff,_** but I guess The Smiths are pretty good,” Alfred said, spinning the record out of its sleeve. He presented it to an unamused Arthur with a flourish. “C’mon, man! It’s _The Smiths!_ ”

When Arthur gave no indication that he intended on responding, Alfred shook the record in his friend’s face. He felt a bit unhinged, today, stomach roiling with nerves. No matter how used to the year’s cycle he got, Alfred always got like this in late August, right before school started.

This time around, he also felt weirdly wistful. Wistful, mostly, for the freedom summer had granted him, this year. Most summers passed without anything memorable happening. But that was _before,_ before Alfred met Arthur and learned how to yearn for something. In this case, having days upon days entirely to themselves.

Not that Alfred would abandon their friendship once the year started, but it would just get harder to find time.

(It would get harder to _make_ time.)

If Arthur also felt this way, this yearning, he didn’t voice it. Rather, he studied the record in Alfred’s hands with an intense look on his face.

“I guess if you can ignore their politics,” Arthur mumbled, before conceding, “fair enough. They’re pretty good, I suppose.”

“This is Mom’s favorite,” Alfred said, taking a moment to look down at the record with a great deal of nostalgia. He walked over to the record player which sat, behind the couch, in a forgotten part of the room. “Dad bought her all kinds of records when they first started dating. He was in a band, that’s how they met.”

He adjusted the stylus, flipped the on-switch for both the speakers and the turnstyle. He turned to face Arthur, who still lounged exactly where Alfred left him, arms draped over the couch cushions. He watched Alfred’s every move without turning his head, eyes tracking back and forth like a cat’s.

“This is her favorite song, too. Well, on the album. Not sure what her favorite song in general is, but,” Alfred said, as the first chords of “There is a Light that Never Dies” riffed. Alfred hummed along, under his breath, “’Take me out, tonight…’”

Mom used to dance to this song with Dad, used to pull him up and coerce him into swaying along. Sometimes, Dad would sing the chorus with her, nose pressed into her hair as he mumbled off-key, without annoyance.

“This is a good one. You have to admit, being crushed by a truck is a depressing way to end a date, though,” said Arthur.

Alfred blinked, memories from the past overlapping with the present moment. He smiled at Arthur, though it rang hollow.

“’To die by your side,” Alfred sung with the track, pointing a finger at Arthur. He meant it to come across as a joke, but the timbre of his voice pitched a bit too low, a bit too sincere, for that. “’Is such a heavenly way to die.’”

Arthur blinked. A weird expression crossed his face, gone quicker than Alfred could decipher it. His cheeks darkened, slightly, and he glanced away.

Come to think of it, this song _was_ sort of depressing. And romantic. Fiddling with the record gave him reprieve, allowed him to hide his own warm cheeks. Jeez, it sure was hot in the basement, huh?

The record jumped suddenly to a song Alfred didn’t recognize off the top of his head. The guitar was a bit heavier, on this one, and Alfred couldn’t deny the relief coursing through him at the change in pace.

“At least your mum has good taste in music,” Arthur said, a pointed insult at _Alfred’s_ taste.

Grateful for the shift in tone, Alfred launched himself over the couch to show Arthur who was in charge, here. The resulting pillow fight left down feathers scattered across the floor and in the soft blond strands of Arthur’s hair. Alfred resisted the urge to reach over and pluck each out, one by one.

That evening, when Arthur stood on Alfred’s front stoop, that terrible yearning arose, again. Clouds obscured the sky, obscured the last rays of the summer sun, which made Alfred feel even more wistful for time that’d already slipped through his fingers. Time with Arthur.

It wasn’t as though he’d never see Arthur again, Alfred reasoned. There was a football game tomorrow night, the first of the season and the only game scheduled before the school year’s start. It wouldn’t be the same; Alfred would have to share Arthur with cheering classmates (fans) in the stands and his teammates.

“I should probably—” Arthur ducked his head.

 _It’ll be worth it to see him,_ Alfred thought.

“So, wait, hear me out.” Alfred opened his palms, a gesture of sincerity. “Our first game is tomorrow. Our first football game. And yours truly—”

At Alfred’s thumbs-up gesture, Arthur groaned.

“—is gonna be front and center. Q-u-a-t-r-b-a-c-k spells “quarterback”, baby!”

Arthur’s reaction was unenthusiastic to say the least. He just rocked from the balls of his feet to his heel, staring at Alfred dumbly.

“And?” Arthur prompted.

“Well? Are you gonna come?”

Alfred waited with bated breath as Arthur debated with himself. He had this habit of drumming his fingers against his lips, a faraway look in his eyes, when he thought hard about something. Alfred personally thought that there wasn’t much to debate—either Arthur would come or he wouldn’t.

So why were his palms sweaty, all of a sudden?

“Can Alistair come?” Arthur asked.

“Uh, yeah, dude, of course!” Alfred rushed to say, overly eager, “I forgot to mention that there’s a $5 entry fee.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, at that. “I think I can scrounge together five dollars.”

Did that mean…?

“You’ll be there?”

Even though Arthur crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes, a small smile twitched at the corners of his lips. He sounded more amused than annoyed when he said, “If you’re going to twist my arm over it. I haven’t been to one of _your_ football games in a while. Pathetic. Everyone with some sense knows you don’t play real football with a pigskin.”

Ignoring the slight against football, Alfred clasped Arthur’s shoulder and shook, releasing his excitement.

“Oh, yay! This’ll be so great—hey, we should all go out after for food or something! Late night McDonald’s run here we go! Matthew can give us a ride, he needs to be there for the newspaper, he got sport’s editor… I’m so pumped dude, you have no idea.”

Alfred gave Arthur’s shoulder another casual pat. For just a second, he let his fingers linger against the warm triangular crease where Arthur’s collarbone dipped to meet his neck and shoulder. For whatever stupid reason, he couldn’t look Arthur in the eye.

“Alright, whatever you want,” Arthur said. His voice was a pitch higher than usual, reedy. He sounded dazed.

“Awesome.” Alfred let his hand drop. “Cool.”

“I really should—” said Arthur, with a gesture over his shoulder at his (ugly) blue car. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Alfred delivered his “Yeah, see you,” to the slim line of Arthur’s back. Above, the grey clouds gathered.

It wasn’t until later, when Alfred’d tucked himself into bed and was nearly asleep, that he remembered what Arthur’d said, about not being to a football game in a long time. Considering the timeline of their relationship—which Alfred knew, thanks to Matthew—Arthur hadn’t been to a football game since he and Francis split up. Reading into _that_ made Alfred’s head spin. The fact that Arthur had been cajoled into coming to sports’ games for so long because of Francis’ responsibility to the newspaper, and now did the very same for Alfred, because Alfred was on the team, was an uncomfortable realization.

Alfred tried to not let it get to him. He had convinced himself that he’d put it out of his mind, the following night, when he took to the field for the first time.

It was a home game, and, with the homefield advantage and a whole score of cheerleaders at his back, Alfred ran plays as effortlessly as if it was all just practice. He’d never played better, but he’d never been given the opportunity to put his skills to the test before. His passes were tight, his rushes tighter; when he crashed shoulder-first into the other team’s defense, his blood sang.

(Alfred would never admit it, but it wasn’t Stacy’s encouragement from the sidelines, cheerleader skirt half an inch shorter than regulation dictated, that motivated Alfred, that night. Rather, it was Arthur’s unseen support on the bleachers, which likely wasn’t much support at all other than half-hearted clapping, pushing Alfred to play his best.)

At halftime, their coach congratulated Alfred (and the other players, but mostly Alfred) on the team’s fourteen-point lead.

“Now get out there and show those fucking sissies how real men play ball!” Their coach bellowed at the end of his locker room speech, finger pointed to the sky as if to remind them that they were #1. The resounding cheer was enough to boil Alfred’s blood, again, and he led them back onto the field chanting.

When they won, Alfred didn’t bother to hit the showers with half the team, swept up in a conversation with several of his lingering teammates, Coach, and the ref. And, by the time _that_ was over with, Alfred figured there wasn’t much point in sticking around. Half the stands had cleared out, by now, with a few groups of people chatting beneath the harsh LEDs. It must be ten o’clock, Alfred mused, as he headed toward the parking lot, helmet tucked under his arm.

Perched on the hood of Arthur and Alistair’s car and somehow towering over his friends, anyway, Matthew spotted Alfred first. Despite waving his hands and calling out an unusually loud, “Good game!”, Alfred completely overlooked his brother, eyes catching on Arthur.

Arthur turned on his heel, breaking their circle. It was a warm night, the humidity blessedly down given the late hour, so Arthur’s hair laid semi-flat against his head. He had a band tee on, some punk group Alfred didn’t recognize, how very un-school spirited of him. When he caught sight of Alfred, he pulled a hand from his pocket and waved. Although his expression didn’t change, much, Alfred could almost see laugh lines appear and crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

“Alfred!”

Now, it was Alfred’s turn to pivot on his heel, so startled that he barely caught the lithe, 110 pounds of unadulterated _girl_ launching herself right at him.

“Stace!”

Alfred spun them, not because he felt romantic but because otherwise he’d fall back onto his ass. Stacy beamed at him, not bothering to adjust herself (or let Alfred adjust himself, he still had her lifted off the ground) before leaning in to kiss him. Her lip-gloss stuck to Alfred’s teeth long after he’d set her down.

“Great plays tonight, babe,” Stacey said. She wrapped her arm loosely around his waist, squeezing the exposed line of his hip. “Hey, there, Matthew.”

Stacy, despite her many (many) faults, had one redeeming quality: she always acknowledged Matthew. Alfred heard a rumor once that she’d eaten her twin in the womb, and that’s why she was so nice to Matthew, the less dominant of the Jones Bros™. Alfred never had the balls to ask her point-blank if the story was true; she’d probably take them, if he did.

“Hi, Stacy,” said Matthew. The expression on his face was dangerously close to a grimace—or, what passed for a grimace because it was _Matthew._ “How was your summer?”

“Good, just spent most of it missing this guy,” she said, before giving Alfred’s butt a hard slap.

Alfred yelped, springing away from her and rubbing his smarting behind with all the indignation in the world.

“ _Hey,_ those are precious goods you’re manhandling!”

Arthur snorted, then, drawing everyone’s attention straight to him. Including Stacy’s, who was more shark than human; other, smaller beings she passed over were usually relieved to live another day. When she smiled, it was all teeth.

“Hi, you look super familiar!” Stacy said, overly bright. “Would I know you from somewhere?”

Arthur’s expression shifted from amused to confused in a heartbeat. He glanced between Alfred and Stacy, unsure.

“Not sure,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Have you been to any of my brother’s gigs?”

A ploy, to shift Stacy’s attention to Alistair. To his credit, Alistair seemed ready to take up the mantle, puffing up his chest with a smile that matched Stacy’s sharpness. But—as any good shark would—she didn’t give up the fight.

“Hm, don’t think I’d have any reason to!” Stacy spoke over Alistair before he could get a word in. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “You’re super… um, _distinctive,_ like the Queen you Brits totally worship or whatever, but I just can’t remember your name!”

Posed like a question, spoken as a demand—that didn’t bode well. Alfred exchanged a frantic look with Matthew.

“Stace…” Alfred said, hesitantly, stepping closer at the risk of his own life and limb.

Arthur, unaware of the danger he was currently in, leaned back against his car.

“Arthur Kirkland, at your service,” he said, naïve to what was coming, with a stupid little bow that was so fucking dorky (so fucking endearing) that it made Alfred’s chest ache.

Much to Alfred’s horror, Stacy’s face lit up with absolute glee. Like a movie in slow motion, Alfred saw what was about to happen with absolutely zero power to stop it.

Voice sugary sweet, she landed the killing blow: “Oh, I get it! You’re not _the_ Queen, but you are _a_ queen, right?”

Arthur froze, didn’t know how to react. Alfred couldn’t blame him, felt the same thing happen to him, stomach buzzing with nerves. Stacy lived up to all the horrible stereotypes about head cheerleaders, because she pulled shit like this for no good reason.

(Oh, fuck Stacy for being so perceptive. And clever. Sometimes, Alfred wondered if she knew something that he didn’t—)

It wasn’t her genuine wit that made Alfred huff a laugh, but his own nervous energy, seeking an outlet. He slung an arm over Stacy, drew her back to his body. Stacy wrapped her arm back around him and squeezed, possessive, now, and her eyes were sharper than any other part of her, like broken glass.

Arthur’s face fell for just a half second, before he snarled, lip curled in a justifiably aggressive expression. Hurt flashed there, too, and Alfred couldn’t bear to see it.

“I think,” _God bless Matthew,_ “my curfew’s at 10:30. We should probably get going, if that’s okay with you, Arthur?”

“But… what about…” Alfred said, in an effort to rescue their aftergame plans. “Guys, c’mon! Late night McDonald’s run?”

No one responded. Maybe Alfred should’ve expected that. He watched Matthew place a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder from his peripheral, too scared to look head-on. _That should be me,_ he thought, dizzyingly.

“I think I’ve seen all I need ta’, here,” said Alistair, voice dripping with disdain. Alfred repressed a wince.

As he watched them leave, feeling like he’d been hit over the head with a brick and wondering what the _fuck_ just happened, Alfred realized that he hadn’t spoken a single word to Arthur all night.

* * *

On the way back to the resort, their taxi driver switched from the Top Christmas Hits channel—which just played the same ten songs on repeat—to a local station that was, apparently, sick and tired of all the holiday cheer.

“You don’t mind, do you?” The guy said, _after_ he changed the channel, which defeated his purpose in asking. “I don’t celebrate.”

Alfred—whose Christmas spirit had been miraculously revived by the past few hours alone—opened his mouth to protest. But Emma beat him to it.

“Of course not,” she said, distracted as she buckled her seatbelt. “It’s disappointing that there aren’t more songs about Hannukah on the radio.”

The driver snorted, nodded in agreement. Alfred looked to him first—noted the Star of David necklace swinging from the rearview mirror—then to her; Emma had her hands tucked neatly in her lap and was staring out the window at the passing scenery.

 _“And that was U2 with_ With or Without You. _Talk about classic rock, eh, Dave?”_ The radio host commentated, voice static over the radio.

 _“I’d say, Jim. Much better than this Christmas trash that CGXL has been playing recently. Up next, by call-in request,_ There is a Light that Never Dies.”

Those familiar opening notes played, sending Alfred right back to nights spent watching his parents twirl around the basement like it was a real dance floor and later, that sweet summer afternoon with Arthur, the last pure moment for a long time after. Alfred flinched at the onslaught.

“It’s funny,” Alfred said, though it really wasn’t, not at all, “but my ex always said that this song’s depressing.”

Emma glanced at him, sharply.

“She has a point,” she said. “Is getting into a car accident meant to be romantic?”

Alfred huffed a laugh, watched the evergreens zip by.

“He said almost the exact same thing, once,” Alfred said, without letting himself _think,_ for once.

(He’d mapped her right to his Achilles heel and then handed her the sword to strike him down, how big of an idiot was he—)

Shame and fear and the frantic urge to _flee_ coursed through him. She was the first person he’d told. Before even Matthew. A hysterical laugh curled in his throat.

If Emma was surprised, she didn’t voice it. When she did speak, there was a smile in her tone, though Alfred couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

“What’s that English saying?” Emma said. “Great minds think alike?”

The world still spun on its axis. Alfred was still alive. He could say it again, could say _he_ again, never wanted to stop now that the dam had been broken. _He. He he he. Arthur. My boyf—_

Still. Alfred didn’t know it was possible to feel this _light._

Alfred released his breath, the laugh coming with it—a chuckle, now—relief coursing through him down to the gentle shake of his fingers. He felt that he might fall apart, the weight of his confession crushing him _._ Alfred didn’t know it was possible to feel this _heavy._

He met Emma’s side-eyed gaze and then they were laughing together.

The taxi arrived a few minutes later. Alfred handled the payment, gave the guy an overlarge tip just because.

They parted in the lobby.

“This is usually how business deals are sealed, right?” Alfred joked, sticking out his hand to give Emma’s a shake.

Emma took it.

“Friends?” she asked.

“Friends,” Alfred said, and then, when he realized they were both headed to the elevators, “by the way, best non-date ever.”

“Agreed.” The doors slid shut. Emma’s suite was up on the top floor, go figure. Alfred punched in his, next, a half-dozen down. “Although, if I may, why did your father request that _you_ go out with me and not your brother?”

Emma studied him for a minute. Alfred hoped that the elevator would arrive at his floor before he might think of what to say. No such luck; Emma, curious, nudged his arm.

“I haven’t told him,” he told the space between his boots. “He also doesn’t know. About… about Arthur.”

To say his _name,_ aloud, in this context was exhilarating. Twice, he’d broken his self-imposed rule. Twice, Alfred felt the opposite of what he’d been conditioned to expect, relief, contentment, instead of discomfort, shame.

And the world stayed spinning. Small victories.

Emma nudged him again, but it was less of a prod, more of a comfort. A mutual understanding passed between them, then; _I won’t tell if you won’t._

“I’m with you, though,” Alfred said, “that you would’ve been more Matthew’s type. If, ahem, you weren’t already seeing someone.”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Alfred stepped back, spinning on his heel to walk backwards. He gave a jaunty salute, a gesture of good faith.

“Here’s to the good of our parents’ industry!” Alfred called, to the doors closing in on Emma’s smiling face.

He could barely hear her say, “and here’s to Matthew!”

Ah, Matthew. At the height of his leisure, Alfred had nearly forgotten about their looming conversation.

He stood in the hallway for a minute, debating. His phone remained in his pocket, dead silent. Alfred checked it anyway.

Nothing.

Alfred reminded himself of all the little ways Matthew had supported him, over the years, most of it unspoken. Reminded himself of Matthew’s kind heart and steely resolve. Reminded himself that although Matthew and their father were alike in a number of ways—not that Alfred would ever tell his brother that—Matthew was _nothing_ like Dad.

(Hadn’t Alfred searched the mirror for a reflection of his father in his own visage, once? He’d come up wanting.

Wasn’t Alfred still looking?)

Alfred squared his shoulders and slid the key home, pushing the door open to find an empty room. Matthew’s suitcase sat untouched at the foot of his bed, in the exact same position it’d been in this morning, when Alfred woke up.

Tossing off his shoes, Alfred flopped onto his bed. He would need to wait, but Alfred had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m SO SORRY that this took so long to get out. Guys. The past few weeks have been insane, mostly with work stuff but also just with general stress. I hope that everyone is staying safe and healthy and is doing ok!
> 
> On a different note, I went back and edited that argument between Matthew and their dad in the car. I just felt like him yelling at his dad wasn't 100% aligned with his character in this fic (or in general) and it was bugging me idk. 
> 
> I appreciate every single comment/kudos so much, it warms my heart guys <3 Hmu on Tumblr @we-arethequeens (I don't post about Hetalia a lot but apparently season 7 is coming out next year??? Did I misread that? First Destiel, now this, my poor heart can't handle it.)


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: everything in the tags + a healthy dosage of religious trauma. 
> 
> Not sure if I nailed the tone of this chapter but we're rolling with it. Enjoy!

Alfred might’ve had all the time in the world, but he was sick of waiting.

At three, when he and Emma parted ways, Alfred settled into the room to wait for Matthew to arrive. He checked his phone for an elusive text from Arthur. He waited. He flipped through the TV for something interesting to watch. And he waited. He sat on the balcony, watching the sun drop lower and the cars pull up to the lodge, their lights pinpricks in the inky blackness. And he waited.

By five, Alfred reached the end of his rope. He went looking for his brother.

It didn’t take him long to figure out where Matthew got off to; as Alfred meandered through the lobby, he caught sight of the sign advertising pickup hockey games. The last game listed started at five-thirty.

The lodge’s ice rink used to be an indoor swimming pool. They repurposed it years ago, but the room’s structure remained. A domed glass ceiling stretched high above the players’ heads and, yep, there Matthew went, zipping by on the ice.

Wide, metal bleachers rested against each wall. They looked unusually packed, for a hotel ice rink. Alfred watched as a group of girls walked by, giggling.

He debated battling for a seat himself, watching and waiting patiently. But it’d been too long since Alfred had last taken to the ice and, after missing a day of skiing, he could use the exercise.

Alfred caught sight of the skate rental booth, on the opposite side of the room, near the lockers. They had extra equipment—kneepads and armguards and helmets—which cost Alfred a pretty penny.

“Twenty bucks?” Alfred complained, under his breath, as he fished around for his wallet.

The guy behind the counter smiled, overly friendly, and held out a hand for Alfred’s (Canadian) money.

“The next scrimmage is at five thirty?” Alfred asked, eyeing the clock.

“That’s right! They’re about to start, you’d better hurry.” The attendant gestured toward the ice. “They’re handing out the jerseys now.”

“Awesome,” Alfred said, as he wrestled with the kneepad’s straps. Alfred said, trying to be conversational, “My brother’s out there, figured I’d join him!”

“The tall kiddo?”

For a second, Alfred was confused—until he glanced at the rink and realized that his brother did, in fact, tower over everyone out there. Including Alfred, once he could get his stupid skate tied right.

“Yeah, that’s him. Canada sweatshirt and all.”

The attendant sounded near revenant when he said, “We get a lot of middle-aged Dads playing, don’t ‘cha know, so he’s the best we’ve seen in a while.”

That checked out. Matthew—who could be nearly as clumsy as Alfred, given the chance—slid across the ice with the grace of a fine-tuned bow on violin strings.

Alfred wrangled himself into his other skate and put on his gloves.

“Yeah, he’s a legend alright,” Alfred said. “Got a stick?”

“On the ice, kiddo.”

Of course, Matthew recognized Alfred right away.

“Alfred?” He called from across the rink.

He broke away from the group of presumably older men to him to glide across the ice. The visor distorted his expression, made him near indecipherable.

“Hey, bro! Figured we could go a round or two,” Alfred said, shaking his stick to emphasize the enthusiasm he didn’t really feel.

Matthew, who wasn’t fooled, just looked at Alfred skeptically. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but the ref blew his whistle before Matthew got the chance.

“I see some new faces—”—cue everyone looking in Alfred’s direction, great—“—so I’ll go over the rules. First team to score three points wins. Divide up the positions among yourselves but don’t get to comfortable, faceoff’s in a minute.”

After consulting with his team—mostly middle-aged dads, like that attendant said—Alfred posted up in front of the goal.

“Shouldn’t I have extra protective gear?” Alfred called, because he felt terribly exposed in his ill-fitting uniform (and ill-smelling, Alfred would bet money that the last time they’d washed this getup was in the ‘80's.)

“Builds character,” said one of Alfred’s own, a man with a handlebar moustache and a rough midwestern accent. Well, that was that.

Alfred quickly regretted not pushing the issue further; the other team clearly had superior talent and communication. Their star player was, of course, Matthew; Alfred hadn’t observed his brother on the ice since last year’s hockey season, and he’d only gotten better. Matthew made the first goal, a streak of red and black in Alfred’s peripheral. The puck hurtled into the net; Alfred lunged after it far too late. He slammed against the ice with an _oomf._ That (and by “that”, Alfred meant all of him) would bruise, later.

When Matthew didn’t immediately apologize, as was usual for him, Alfred grew suspicious. He hadn’t considered that Matthew might be mad at Alfred—or, at least, madder than he’d been a few days ago, at the start of their vacation. Even then, Alfred had the sense that Matthew was frustrated with their Dad, and Alfred by extension, rather than Alfred himself. Now, Alfred couldn’t be sure.

The next thirty minutes or so passed about the same; Matthew skated with his usual amount of deadly grace and ferocity. He didn’t hold back, scoring the second and third, winning, goals for his team. Alfred had to dodge the last shot, to avoid being puck-ed in the face.

The ref blew his whistle and announced the clear winner. The end score was 3-0.

“Good game, kid,” a few of the players said, slapping Matthew on the back. Matthew, never one to bask in his own glory, thanked them and raced off the ice, as quickly as possible.

Alfred, naturally, followed him. Matthew sat, hunched over, on a nearby bench, wrenching his skates off. He fought a losing battle with his laces.

“Hey, man, you’re not mad at me, are you?” Alfred asked, approaching his brother on unsteady ground. He wasn’t used to walking on skates’ fine blades.

Matthew’s alarmed gaze gave Alfred his answer, but Matthew still clarified, “No, of course not! Why would you think that?”

“Dunno, you were pretty aggressive, out there.”

Alfred sat beside his brother, tugging at his own triple-knotted laces.

“Those guys are right,” Alfred said, “You’re a natural.”

Matthew fixed Alfred with a long, blank look. He’d taken the helmet off, and his hair flopped down into his eyes in a way their father would hate.

“I guess,” said Matthew, always humble. He shrugged. “They’re all good, too.”

“Not as good as you.”

It was true. Nobody was better on the ice than Matthew, except maybe the true professionals. He had Alfred beat, that was for sure.

“Thanks,” Matthew said, after a moment, uncomfortable with the praise. He switched topics quickly. “How was your date?”

His brother was no prude, but he also you got awkward, about girl-related stuff. Alfred snorted, and when he looked up to meet Matthew’s eyes, they stared steadily back. There was a teasing glint, in them, and no hidden suspicion, as far as Alfred could tell.

Alfred wiggled his eyebrows.

“It was good. Didn’t get anywhere with her but, y’know, Dad will probably benefit, at least,” said Alfred, rhetorically. He hoped that was the end of it.

Matthew made a face, but refrained from voicing whatever opinion he had about Dad whoring Alfred out for business purposes.

“Anyway!” Alfred said, desperate to change the subject. “What’ve you been up to, today?”

“Went skiing in the morning before coming up here. I had lunch at that little café that’s posted up at the bottom, you should go tomorrow. Oh, and I think I’m finally ready to tackle the black diamond,” Matthew said. “It’s only taken me… uh, how long have we been coming here?”

Years. Years upon years of late-night plane rides, switchbacks in the mountains and waking up in beds that weren’t their own on Christmas morning. Alfred couldn’t remember the last time the holidays had passed normally. Sometimes, it felt as though things would be like this forever.

“Ah, jeez,” Alfred said, scratching the back of his head. “Twelve years?”

“Sounds right.” Matthew was clearly distracted. He scuffed his socked feet against the rubber tile overlay.

“Listen, I think we should—” Alfred started.

At the same time, Matthew said, “Alfred, I’m—”

Like the two hands on a clock that’s out of batteries, both Alfred and Matthew stopped at the same time. Matthew busied himself with unstrapping his shin guards. Alfred watched the zamboni roll out onto the rink, doing its steady rounds.

“I know how much it stresses you out,” Matthew said, over his shoulder, “feeling like you have to hide things from me.”

Alfred was suddenly, alarmingly, aware of how public this conversation was. A few of the guys from the game lingered nearby, still in their skates. A group of people who’d previously been in the stands wandered past, chatting about “that tall guy’s kickass moves”. The attendant at the equipment kiosk traded out a pair of shoes for a pair of skates. None of them were aware of the cataclysmic conversation occurring on this bench. 

Did Matthew _know?_ He had to know. Alfred’s two biggest secrets—the only two things he ever actively kept from his brother—were intricately tied together. Arthur and his role in Alfred’s life. All the implications that came with their relationship.

Alfred glanced at his brother but Matthew didn’t glance back, focused on taking his elbow pads off, now.

“You don’t have to, is what I’m saying,” Matthew said, more to the floor than to Alfred. “Whatever it is, you can tell me you know.”

“What makes you think I’m hiding something from you?” Alfred said, with a strangled laugh.

Matthew did look, then, his eyes wide and vulnerable. Judging by his expression, he seemed almost…guilty? But that didn’t make any sense, if Alfred was the one hiding from Matthew. Unless…

“Because _I’ve_ been hiding something from _you_ ,” Matthew said.

There it was. Alfred couldn’t muster the energy to be offended. It would make him a hypocrite, anyway.

“Oh,” Alfred said.

“Yeah. Mom gave me a call, the night before we came up.”

A familiar low simmer— _Mom,_ who abandoned Alfred last summer, whisked Matthew away to Canada without asking Alfred if he’d like to tag along—ignited in Alfred’s gut.

He tried to sound nonchalant when he said, “Oh?”

“She told me everything, that she and Dad are calling it quits. Officially.” Matthew paused, studied Alfred for a reaction. “They're getting divorced. That’s why they’ve both got meetings on New Year’s Eve, they’re settling with the lawyer.”

Alfred always knew it was coming, his parents’ divorce. They’d been separated since Alfred’s middle school years, although Mom technically lived with them, still. It wasn’t that they hated one another, Alfred believed, they’d just grown apart. The busyness of their jobs and lifestyles kept them separated and, after a while, they’d just leaned into it. That didn’t prevent the sting of it. That it would all be official, that Mom would leave, again.

Alfred remembered the good old days, when Mom made them dinner each night and Dad carved time out of his schedule for weekly game nights. It all felt so distant, now.

“Oh.” Aware he should say something else, Alfred added, “I sort of thought they were already divorced, to be honest.”

“For a couple days, I was convinced you knew.” Matthew sounded apologetic. “That Dad told you. And you weren’t telling me.”

That stung more than the actual news. Alfred swallowed heavily, watched the lights above go from harsh florescent to something softer. Christmas music played over the speaker; in the evenings, this place turned into a romantic getaway for couples skating.

“No.”

“She told me some other stuff, too. Like specifics about the divorce. About Dad,” said Matthew, after a minute.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” It would all be negative. Would all paint Dad in a negative light. And, despite Alfred’s own qualms with his father, Matthew and Mom were both biased. Alfred wouldn’t listen to this slander.

“Alfred…”

“I thought you didn’t like gossip, Matthew.” Alfred regretted saying it immediately. Matthew physically flinched back, palms curling protectively over the pile of gear in his lap.

“It’s not gossip if it’s coming straight from the source,” said Matthew, a touch defensive. “Why can’t you stand to hear anything bad about him? It’s not like he’s been fair to you, either.”

It was true, but Alfred didn’t want to hear it. He scooped up his discarded skates, juggled the rest of his equipment.

“It’s up to me to keep the Jones legacy alive,” Alfred said. “I can’t undermine Dad’s authority, dude. Besides, I’m sure they’ll tell me when they’re ready.”

“Legacy?” Matthew said. He threw his arms in the air, an overdramatic gesture for him, which sent some of his equipment clattering to the floor. “That’s so—what does that—what does the Jones legacy mean to you, exactly?”

 _Repression,_ thought Alfred, and then banished it from his mind. He fought to put a smile on his face.

“Uh, I dunno… respect? Dignity? Honor? Like, that’s what Dad always says.” He started walking toward the booth, not waiting to see if Matthew trailed behind. “Now, c’mon, enough of this chit chat. I could eat a horse! Room service tonight?”

They didn’t discuss it again, although Matthew clearly wanted to. Occasionally, Matthew would glance at Alfred, would open his mouth as if to start a conversation before second guessing himself, before looking away. Alfred, who felt as though he’d dodged a major bullet—regarding what, specifically, he kept hidden from Matthew—didn’t prod at the issue.

It got him thinking, though. Alfred was sick of hiding. Opening up to Emma, while absolutely terrifying, had felt _good._ Alfred had already known he’d need to talk to Matthew, and soon, and this only solidified his resolve.

 _He might be mad at me for keeping it a secret,_ Alfred thought, as he drifted off that night. It was a treacherous line of thought, the last hurdle Alfred needed to conquer. And so, with that in mind, Alfred slept. His dreams were fitful, and he awoke before dawn panting, as if he'd been running from something. 

* * *

**_The Jones family business_** originated in 1946, shortly after great grandpa Frank returned from Normandy with a Purple Heart and one leg that would remain stiff the rest of his life. The Jones family had a long history of military service that dated back to the Revolution. Frank wouldn’t be the first to break that streak; when he returned from active service, he had to carve his own path outside of active combat. He still hungered, as he had during the war, but it fueled the flame of his sharp ambition. It was this ambition that coaxed Frank to open a light and appliances shop in New York, just a few blocks from Times Square.

Great grandpa Frank hadn’t lived to see his son, Dad’s father, grow the empire; Frank never could have predicted that his well-to-do chain of shops would explode into a massive, international retailer. Beyond even his own father’s success, Dad, despite his rebellious early years, earned his degree in electrical engineering and pushed the business toward the power distribution sector, too. In just 70 years, the Jones legacy was radically altered forever, their name now synonymous with success and hard work.

If having twin boys threw a wrench in Dad’s personal plans for the company, he never expressed the sentiment to them. At least, not when they were kids.

“You know what’s better than one CEO, dear?” Dad used to joke, with a conspiratorial glance to their Mom.

“I don’t know, love, what’s that?” Mom said, loudly, above her sons’ giggling.

“Two!” said Dad, leaping from his recliner to chase Alfred and Matthew around the house. When he caught up, he slung them over each arm.

“You Jones boys are double trouble!” That was Dad’s favorite slogan for the two of them. 

Both Mom and Dad were around more, back then. Being big man in charge came with a certain time commitment, sure, but business was booming. Appliances flew off the shelves and the acquisitions and mergers with smaller power companies leveraged the business to new heights. The business practically ran itself.

Then came the recession, and all Dad’s time bled away. Unlike a great number of his recently laid off employees, Dad’s job was never in jeopardy—unless the whole company went under, of course. He worked day and night to make up for the drop in sales. Whenever the company made layoffs or they had to close a retail location, he went into his office with a bottle of whiskey and wouldn’t come out until morning.

Ironically, Mom’s side gig, a small marketing firm that she’d started to keep herself in the public sector, blew up that year. They were asked to manage a national baseball team’s name change scandal and, upon that success, business boomed. Alfred was too young to know at the time, but Mom’s first steps toward financial independence and success sowed the first seeds of discontent in her marriage.

Even back then, Matthew had always been overlooked. Matthew had always been shy, soft-spoken, had let his peers and adults walk all over him. Alfred was the firstborn, and he took on the more dominant role. It was just in his nature. Their personalities catered to their roles in their family and in life; Alfred took charge and Matthew sat back quietly, following along like a shadow.

But, that first terrible summer that Dad spent drowning in paperwork and dread, and Mom spent away from the household for the first time in years, Matthew discovered hockey. He’d been skating since he and Alfred were little, four or five years old. He’d been better than Alfred, back then, and when the opportunity arose to do a hockey bootcamp at the local YMCA, Matthew took it.

Alfred knew he was good at football, even at that age, but Matthew’s talent—no, natural gift—at hockey far surpassed his brother’s on the field. He was quickly moved from group lessons to a private coach, who marveled at Matthew’s grace on the ice and honed his skill. Alfred was too distracted with trying to stay upright for longer than five minutes at a time. He must’ve been the only one in the rink not paying Matthew any attention; for the first time in their lives, it was Matthew who took the spotlight, outshining even Alfred.

Matthew declared that he wanted to play for one of those elite Canadian teams to their parents at the end of the summer. Mom was all for the idea; she’d been following his progress at the sessions, took an extended lunch one afternoon to see her son in action. She seemed proud of him, and Alfred couldn’t compete.

Dad, on the other hand, soured.

“Yes, that’s all well and good, son, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Dad said, in his sternest, no-nonsense tone of voice. “You’re still set to inherit half of the Jones empire.”

Matthew never learned his lesson, after all. The forced independence he'd endured as a child did a number on him; he no longer cared about the Jones empire, and made that quite clear to everyone in the family as he got older.

It figured that the only person Matthew ever learned to stand up to, over the years, would be their father.

After that, all of Dad’s attention turned to Alfred. In his early adolescent years, Alfred strove to meet his father’s expectations. Let himself be paraded around company events and fundraisers. He received praise that he reveled in and criticisms that he tried to remedy; but his academics never improved and his interest in superheroes and sports, rather than the debate team or the engineering club, never abated.

As Matthew faded into obscurity, in their family, Dad made it clear that Alfred’s path was fixed. He would take over the company and run it with just as much, or more, skill as his predecessors. The fate of the Jones legacy rested in his hands. It was a heavy burden to bear.

So, Alfred got good at hiding things. At hiding things from his father. Including the dread he felt when he thought about what his life would be like in ten years, rather than the eagerness he’d felt as a child.

Alfred had looked up to his father, once, saw him as a strong, capable leader with a great deal of intelligence, strength, and compassion. The ideal man, the model husband, the best father. In some ways, Alfred still perceived his father as such, despite his father’s harsh lessons and high standards. Alfred tried, so hard, to not be a disappointment. Sometimes, it felt that his entire identity had been built around this great expectation, this great destiny, that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. That there was no other path for him but this one. Which made it even more painful when Alfred wanted to stand up to his father. Somewhere, along the line, Alfred had become the peacemaker, and to break that complicit streak might just break what remained of their family apart for good. 

* * *

Two days before Christmas, Dad walked into Alfred and Matthew’s room with good news.

“He’s investing equity, boys.” Dad exclaimed. He examined their cheerless faces for a reaction.

“Kickass, Dad!” Alfred said, awkwardly, when Matthew didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what investing in equity meant but it sure sounded like a good thing.

Dad’s disapproving look at the (accidental) cuss was worth the pat on the shoulder that followed it.

“Thanks, Alfred. I think it’s cause for celebration, don’t you?”

Celebrating meant meeting the Osbornes (seriously, Alfred needed to learn their actual last name) at the nicest restaurant in town. Dressed to the nines in a button down and a black suit jacket, Alfred endured the awkward car ride over with Matthew in the backseat. It was too dark out to see the scenery. Alfred watched his own expression in the window’s reflection. His glasses were still slightly crooked—he adjusted them before they exited the car.

Emma and her father waited for them at the table. When they arrived, Osborne stood and shook Dad’s hand firmly, only the once.

When the waitress came by to take their drink order, Dad ordered a $500 bottle of scotch, and instructed her to bring four tumblers with it. She raised her eyebrows at that but didn’t comment. Alfred and Matthew were still a year behind the legal drinking age in Canada, but she clearly wasn’t in a rush to card them.

Alfred didn’t really want to drink, believed he might say something he would regret. When the scotch arrived, though, Dad poured both his sons a hefty glass without asking them if they wanted any.

When Alfred reached across the table to take his glass, Dad nodded encouragingly.

“Don’t let it go to waste, son,” he said. “We’re honoring the family legacy, tonight.”

Matthew’s words about legacy echoed in Alfred’s ears when he took a hearty swig. Nearly two fingers’ worth of alcohol settled in Alfred’s empty stomach. When he set the drink down, he misjudged and clanked it against the edge of the plate. He already felt lightheaded.

“Careful,” Dad said. “You probably want to savor that, considering you'll be drinking out of kegs for the next four years.”

Alfred recalled something Dad had told him about people on the other side of town, once, when he said, “Either way, this sure is better than that moonshine the hillbillies make out in the sticks!”

Everyone at the table laughed. Except Matthew. Matthew frowned and stared at his hands.

Alfred joined in, a moment too late, uncomfortable with his brother’s reaction and with being the butt of the joke. 

Emma, who occupied the seat next to Alfred, gave him a secret smile. She raised her glass in a mock toast.

“To the good of our parents’ industry,” she said, under her breath.

Alfred snorted, echoing her words from a few days prior, “And to Matthew.”

As if being summoned, Matthew turned his head in their direction. Alfred held up his glass, a wordless toast, but Matthew did not reciprocate. Just ignored his scotch in favor of the water he’d requested, taking a long drink.

The waitress came back to take their dinner orders. The conversation was lighter, this time around, now that the agreement between their companies was signed and sealed.

Alfred spent a good chunk of the evening chatting with Emma. In addition to what he’d learned on their not-a-date, he discovered that she was a first-year university student in Brussels, that she knew five languages (Flemish, French, Hebrew, English, and Dutch, in that order), and her favorite color was red.

“Because of…” Alfred said, thinking of Michelle’s red headdress and the flattering shade of lipstick she wore in those pictures.

“Perhaps that is the reason,” she said. Her flush gave her away.

“Getting along?” Osborne interrupted. He watched them as a snake might watch its prey, hiding in the grass.

“Yes, sir, your daughter’s real special,” Alfred said with his usual carefree smile.

It was true; so what if Alfred embellished the nature of their friendship? It seemed to satisfy Dad, at least, who nodded with pride.

Alfred hated how he preened at his father’s approval. He finished off his drink, poured himself another.

“I hear wedding bells,” Dad said, a clear joke, but it made Alfred and Emma both stiffen and glance away.

“Ha ha, good one, Dad.” Alfred sounded wooden, even to himself. Much to the horror of everyone at the table, Alfred tossed back what remained of his second alcoholic beverage. He stood on unsteady feet. “Excuse me.”

Alfred didn’t have a destination in mind—just knew that he had to get away—but the bathroom seemed as good as any. The dark green tile absorbed any warmth the low lighting gave off; Alfred leaned against the wall opposite the mirrors and watched himself blink.

 _Fuck,_ he wished Arthur was here with him. Arthur, that goddamned spitfire. He would’ve tossed his glass of overly expensive scotch right in Osborne’s face. Or would’ve ran conversational circles around everyone at the table, sarcasm dripping with each double-edged word. He would’ve winked at Alfred across the table, bold as he’d always wanted to be in public, before. Then, once their dinner guests had forgotten the two of them, Arthur would give his coy little smile and jerk his head toward the bathroom, where they’d sneak off and—

It was a nice thought. But place Dad back into the frame and the visual changed to something less than pleasant, even in its unpleasantness. Arthur and Dad couldn’t coexist in Alfred’s life any more than oil and water could cohabitate the same glass.

The realization hit Alfred and sunk deep. Alfred spent most of his life in some state of denial, a byproduct of pushing away a critical piece of his identity. Staring down his own reflection, more than a little buzzed, Alfred found that he had nowhere else to run. No more mental loopholes to leap through.

Alfred fumbled for his phone. The restaurant Wi-Fi didn’t have a password. He connected to it and then went to his contacts. He suddenly _needed_ to speak to Arthur, urgently.

“’ello?” Arthur answered after the fourth ring, sounding distracted.

“Artie, hi,” Alfred cooed into the receiver. He was aware that he shouldn’t be speaking to his ex like this—with a simpering, lovesick tone—but then he thought about Arthur, and his adorable grumpy face and he just… melted.

“… Are you drunk?”

“No!” Alfred said, waving an arm in dismissal. He whacked it against the wall, which, _ow._ “I just miss you, man.”

Even drunk, Alfred recognized it was the wrong thing to say. Arthur’s ragged breathing on the other end went dead silent, like he was holding it in suspense.

A middle-aged man in a jacket worth more than Alfred’s piece o’ junk truck entered the bathroom, gave Alfred the side-eye before heading to the urinal.

“Alfred,” Arthur said, in that terrible, wounded-animal way of his. “Where _are_ you?”

“Uh. The bathroom.” The man gave Alfred another strange look, where he now stood at the tap. Alfred waited for him to leave before he said, “I’m going to tell him. Matthew.”

Another silence, longer this time. Alfred had never expressed this sentiment to Arthur, although it’d been on his mind for some number of months.

“Oh… good.” Arthur sounded shocked. “He will be supportive you know.”

Alfred scuffed the tile with the toe of his black loafer. He wondered how often Matthew daydreamed about running away from it all. The dinners, the Jones legacy. Their father. Alfred was pragmatic, a realist, and even he thought about it far too much. It wasn’t healthy.

“He hates me, I think,” Alfred said. When he blinked, pinpricks of light danced behind his eyelids. “Sometimes, not all the time, but he totally does.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Arthur, gently. A bit chiding, too, to remind Alfred that he was being ridiculous. “Your brother has a high propensity for bullshit after all.”

They shared a laugh, at that, an old, worn-out sound.

“What time should I be expected at your great mansion on the hill?” Arthur said, changing the subject.

“So over dramatic, but what else is new,” Alfred said with a smile. “Sometime in the late afternoon might be best. I know it’ll be better for you, given your sleeping habits.”

These long pauses got real old, real quick. Alfred listened to Arthur’s silent deliberating on the other end of the call.

“I… Alfred.” Arthur paused, as if unsure where to go from there. “It’s only… Francis suggested that I join him to ring in the new year, at a party of his.”

Fucking Francis Bonnefoy. Alfred never had a thing against the guy, truly, but lately he’d become a niggling thorn in his side. Next time Alfred saw Francis, he’d be sure to give him a piece of his mind. And, if Francis was unlucky, Alfred might even treat him to a knuckle sandwich. On the house.

“I’m still debating if I’ll go, but I’m not sure when it’s set to start, exactly,” said Arthur.

“So, he was over at your place last Tuesday, after all,” Alfred said, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. He felt more betrayed than was justifiable, given that they were broken up.

Arthur floundered, “I, well, not precisely, it’s just—"

“Don’t worry, dude. Bro. You should go to your party,” he said, speaking over Arthur. He was glad that the bathroom remained empty, because he couldn’t moderate his volume, at the moment. “I think morning is fine, too, my parents will be out by ten-ish!”

Another pause. Alfred let it sit, smug that he’d rattled Arthur. Though, when Arthur spoke, it was curt.

“Good. So long as that’s settled.”

A wash of emotion rolled over Alfred, then, a terrible yearning. 

“Artie…” he said, unable to contain his desperation. He didn’t know what would come out of his mouth next—which was typical, for him.

Arthur cut him off before Alfred could find out.

“Happy Christmas.”

There wasn’t time to suss out if the low tone to Arthur’s voice matched Alfred’s. If his emotion threatened to open a raw, gaping wound in his chest, too.

Arthur hung up.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Alfred said, to the empty bathroom.

He got ahold of himself, straightened his hair in the mirror. Time to face the music. But the door swung open before Alfred could leave of his own accord, and in walked Dad.

Alfred’s father was not a tall man; he stood a few inches shorter than Alfred. His bald head and prominent nose gave him an eagle-like appearance. He, like many Jones men, had poor eyesight. When Dad pinned Alfred with a disapproving look over the rims of his glasses, it felt like staring down the barrel of a rifle.

Dad did not give Alfred that look now, rather a brief smile before going to the tap.

He said, over his shoulder, “So this is where you got off to. We were thinking of sending search and rescue after you.”

Alfred forced a laugh. He approached the sink, too, lathered his hands with soap and stuck them under the burning water.

“Yeah, sorry, Dad,” Alfred said. “I think I had too much to drink.”

“And I’m the one who dangled the vice below your perhaps overeager nose. Don’t beat yourself up, son.”

The bathroom offered soft hand towels rather than something disposable for patrons to dry their hands. Dad picked one up out of a little basket and methodically worked it between his fingers.

“I am proud of you, you know,” Dad said, without looking at Alfred. “This date you went on, with Emma, it was obviously a success. Whatever she told her father helped me during our contract negotiations.”

Alfred hated the swell in his chest at those words, _I’m proud of you,_ the words he’d grown up hearing only as it related to the business. He’d often wondered if Dad could ever, would ever, be proud of him for his other accomplishments.

“Gee, it was no trouble, Dad. I kinda had fun.”

Dad hummed in response. He clutched the used towel between his palms. His watch’s face, a gold Rolex, glimmered when he moved.

“That right? Thought she wasn’t your type.”

Alfred met Dad’s hard gaze, then, searched for any lingering amusement in his expression. There was none; disapproval took its place.

“No, she’s-she’s super, uh, hot,” Alfred said. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

“Thought you preferred blonds,” said Dad, with a menacing step into Alfred’s personal space.

Alfred backpedaled instinctually. He _did_ prefer blonds; Stacy, who Dad knew and thought was perfect for Alfred, was a blond. _Arthur_ was a blond. Did that mean that—was Dad implying that—

“I… I guess I do, yeah,” Alfred said. He tried to smile, but it probably came across as more of a grimace. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, all scrunched up against the wall. How _pathetic._

“Noted,” Dad said, and then he narrowed his eyes. “Next time we do this, I’ll make sure our prospect has a blond daughter instead, alright?”

“Okay, sure. Sounds like a plan.”

“Now, do you mind moving?” Dad asked. He held up his towel, his good humor restored. “You’re standing in front of the trash. Or whatever system they have, for this environmentally conscious solution, here.”

Alfred left the bathroom with Dad’s hand settled heavily on his shoulder.

The rest of dinner passed quickly. They ate their overpriced dessert and discussed all the business-related subjects Alfred didn’t understand. He refrained from pouring another drink to cope.

When they stood to leave, Dad noticed Matthew’s untouched glass of scotch. He whispered something into Matthew’s ear, probably about wasted money. Alfred couldn’t hear his exact phrasing, standing across the table, but could guess well enough. Matthew went red but remained quiet as ever, trailing dutifully after their father.

Alfred said goodnight to their dad outside his door. Matthew did not. Once they got into their respective rooms, with the doors firmly shut, Alfred rounded on his brother.

“Would it kill you to be nice to him every now and then?” Alfred said, with an accusatory finger pointed toward the wall separating their rooms.

Matthew scoffed as he undid his tie in front of the hallway mirror.

“Would it kill you to not be such a suckup,” he mumbled.

“What was that?” Alfred asked, lowly, realizing just how _angry_ he was.

How long had _that_ been building up inside him?

Like some seismic twin sense, or something, Matthew turned on Alfred as he approached. His brother looked innocent, suddenly, and confused.

 _Tough,_ Alfred thought, _don’t start shit if you can’t end shit._

“I’m sorry, that was out of line,” Matthew said. He took a pacifist’s approach, the jerk, “I’m not mad at you, I just wish that you wouldn’t regurgitate everything he’s ever told you.”

Alfred paused. Reached over to flip the overhead light on so he could stare Matthew down under the full fluorescents. 

“Right, okay, one, I don’t do that.” Alfred took a pause to breathe, raggedly, through his nose. “And, two, if I did do that, I’d tell you about all the things he’s ever told me about _you,_ which, trust me, you don’t wanna hear, bro.”

 _Ouch._ Alfred didn’t mean to be that… _mean._ Dad called Matthew all sorts of things when it was just him and Alfred, alone. They were usually framed as compliments directed towards Alfred, like, _your brother just isn’t as naturally inclined toward balancing the books, not like you are._ For years, Alfred had soaked up the attention, until he realized that Matthew would _definitely_ be better at managing the business than Alfred, and Dad was just doing it to belittle Matthew. 

Alfred still took the praise, that was the worst part. He never tried to refute his father or defend his brother. He just pretended he didn’t know it was happening, like he always did in uncomfortable situations.

He regretted bringing it up, now. Matthew bit his lip in a classically worried gesture and curled in on himself. Like this, he stood at Alfred’s eyeline.

“You were kinda classist,” Matthew mumbled but it lacked any of his previous vigor. “At dinner.”

The moonshine comment? Alfred couldn’t think of anything else he’d said, but maybe…

Matthew’s new friends, Lovino and Antonio, were from that side of town. The rougher part. The part Alfred actively avoided. Yes, Lovino and Antonio definitely had some sort of impact on Matthew, if he felt confident enough to call Alfred out after so long watching from the sidelines. Alfred’s reputation preceded him, and no one knew it more than Matthew, who often was confused for Alfred and took the rap for his brother’s actions.

“Oh, grow a pair already, Matthew,” Alfred snapped.

Matthew reeled back. His arms came up, a defensive and placating gesture in one. His palms were calloused from extensive time spent in contact with a hockey stick, Alfred noted distantly, as if through a tunnel.

“I used to do it, too,” Matthew said. “Believed everything he told me. About myself. About the world. But it’s not _like_ that, Alfred, you can do better. You can be better.”

“I don’t need to _be better_ ,” Alfred repeated Matthew’s words back to him with a sneer. “What happened to liking me just the way I am, huh? Or have your little friends convinced you that I’m just some big jerk?”

Matthew frowned. Something Alfred said seemed to genuinely upset him. Alfred probably should’ve kept Matthew’s friends out of it, and hated that was something he had to consider, now. For a long time, other than the occasional cast-off friend from Alfred, Matthew didn’t have anyone to defend besides Alfred himself.

Eventually, Francis and Arthur came along. But that was later. And, even above them, Matthew was Alfred’s ally and friend, first.

It hurt, that Alfred might lose that. Might’ve already lost that. He wasn’t angry, not anymore, but Matthew, it would seem, was just getting started.

“When we were kids, I pretended I was you all the time,” Matthew said—the last thing Alfred expected to come out of his mouth. Matthew scoffed, and it sounded like Alfred’s own dismissive tone. “In my own head, I tried to, like, emulate you whenever I was scared or nervous because I looked up to you. You were so self-assured, and everyone loved you for it. Especially me.”

Alfred sucked in a breath. He stayed rooted in place, unable to move or speak.

Matthew looked at him, expectantly, and when no response came, he shook his head. He said, in a low, bitter tone, “Did you ever really exist how I saw you? Or was it all a lie? I’ve been asking myself that a lot, recently.”

It was a lie. _Alfred_ was a lie—worse, a liar. He hadn’t always been a liar; Alfred believed he was straight, once, despite all the strange… _occurrences_ in his childhood. Once he met Arthur, he’d been forced to confront that side of himself. Alfred had learnt that he’d been masquerading all along, had worn a mask for his entire life without knowing it. Only, Alfred never removed the mask after learning it existed. He never even tried.

Alfred couldn’t fault himself for that. Not entirely. What he _did_ fault himself for was the continued behavior toward other people who’d also worn masks, once, like Lovino or Ludwig. Only, they didn’t know about him. They didn’t know that he was also… he was also…

And even if they did. Even if Lovino and Ludwig and Feliciano and god knows who else _knew_ that Alfred was gay, it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. Because, despite Alfred’s own weird, twisted self-hatred (at not being able to meet his father’s fucking expectations, to start), that didn’t make his own actions over the years any less damning. Alfred _had_ pushed Lovino against lockers and called Ludwig a _fucking faggot_ and spread nasty rumors about poor, kind Feliciano. There was nothing Alfred could do to change that.

Alfred _had_ been self-assured, as Matthew had said, once; so long ago, now, that he couldn’t recall what it felt like.

The gap in their conversation went on long enough that Matthew turned away, turned his back on Alfred. He moved deeper into the room, changed into his sleepwear by the time Alfred thought of something to say. And by then, it was too late.

Alfred settled into bed, facing toward his brother. With the lights off and the curtains closed, Alfred could barely make out Matthew’s profile in the dark.

“I’m afraid too, you know,” said Alfred, at long last, “that one day a single brick is gonna get taken out and the whole house will fall after it.”

Matthew must’ve been half-asleep, because he mumbled a confused, “What?”

“Never mind.” Alfred rolled over, faced the opposite wall. “Goodnight, Matt,”

* * *

**_Church attendance was occasional at best,_** for the William-Jones household, but when they did go it was at the behest of their mom. Mom had been raised Catholic. She grew up in Canada to traditional parents, and she maintained her faith long after she’d abandoned all pretense of tradition.

Because their attendance at the local congregation was on and off, Alfred never got to know the kids in his youth group. Alfred was popular at his middle school—at that age, being the funniest, loudest boy in class equaled being the most popular—but not at the post-service youth group meetings he and Matthew occasionally went to, a mix of kids from the surrounding counties.

There was one boy, though, who sat in the back and giggled at Alfred’s arguably disruptive jokes. Evan Miller wore awful sweater vests and all the other kids mocked him for it; everyone, that was, except Alfred. Although the sweater vests came in all colors but always seemed a size or two too big, they suited him. Not that _he_ knew that.

“I don’t even like them. My mom makes me,” Evan confessed, under his breath, after a few of their fellow Christians were done ridiculing him about the splotchy orange vest he had on.

Mrs. Miller was a widow. She’d had Evan at nearly forty, and he was her only son. She seemed to get along well enough with the rest of the people at church, despite her oddities, but what did Alfred know?

After a few months, Alfred went so far as to call Evan his friend. Alfred had a lot of “friends”, but not many _friends;_ Matthew was Alfred’s _friend._ So was Ivan, the weird Russian transfer student in Alfred’s math class. And Kiku, who Alfred gamed with on weekends. And now, Evan. Evan was a true friend, someone who Alfred knew would fight in his corner and boost him up when he felt low.

It was a two-way street, friendship, Alfred reminded himself when he saw a couple teenagers poking fun at Evan’s getup one week after the service. Alfred ambushed Evan, catching him by the collar and dragging him away from the situation and into a nearby coat closet.

In the dark, smothered by the 10 o’clock service’s jackets and the smell of mothballs, Alfred couldn’t see Evan’s expression. Alfred would put his money on shocked, though, especially when he reached forward to tug at the hem of the funky little purple striped number Evan wore.

“C’mon, Evan, just take it off. You have a button-up, dude, you’re not running around without a shirt on here,” Alfred insisted, a laugh tumbling out of him for no good reason. He was weirdly giddy about this whole thing, like he always did when he broke the rules. “Like, c’mon, think of her face when she sees you without it!”

Evan raised his arms above his head so Alfred could pull his sweater vest up and off.

Swathed in that inky blackness was like being in a dream; people congregated in the lobby to chat but the dull roar of overlapping voices was entirely muted by the closet doors. A strip of light, thin as a pencil, exposed Evan’s wide, brown iris and pale cheek.

At twelve years old, Alfred had very little experience with girls. And he knew his experiences with boys were strictly not allowed—like when he played house with another boy in preschool. Or when he’d questioned how the knight could go about saving the prince in the story, along with the princess. Or like this moment, right now, when Alfred let the darkness take him completely, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet to breach Evan’s personal bubble.

Years later, Alfred would actively deny that his lips brushed Evan Miller’s in the coat closet on holy Sunday.

There was a rustling outside the door, the quiet _snick_ of someone coming in to retrieve their coat. Alfred, feeling like a trapped, feral dog, dropped Evan’s sweater. He pushed by his confused fellow Christian to where Matthew and Mom stood. He remembered begging her to go home, claiming that he felt unwell. He was just flushed enough that she believed him.

A few days after, Alfred dreamed that he let Evan slip his hand beneath the waistband of his good church khakis. Only in the dream it wasn’t dark and Alfred could see all of Evan; he even wore a sweater vest. It brought out the color in his eyes.

Alfred woke up with the lingering effects of the dream drying in his superhero PJ’s. He convinced himself that once he left the room, his family would _know_ just by looking at him. And then they’d know everything, about Evan, and the dream, and—

His shame overwhelmed him. On a Wednesday morning before school, Alfred cried himself stupid, muffling the sound of it with his pillow. By the time he was up, showered, and fed, all of it managed by himself, his parents were too busy with their own routines to notice his splotchy face and red-rimmed eyes. And Matthew had the good grace not to mention it.

Evan moved away in the month-long interim between that church service and the next that Alfred’s family attended. Alfred wasn’t sure what to make of that. It was almost time to start confirmation into the church—a ritual for pre-teens to encourage them to permanently subscribe to God’s channel, or something—and Alfred had been looking forward to the confirmation meetings because of Evan. Then again, Evan being gone meant that any awkwardness, or questions, shuffled away, also. Alfred swallowed his disappointment with a swig of the communion cup.

Being from a small town meant that everybody’s business was aired out with the laundry. Post-service events, like coffee with the priest or a prayer circle, were breeding grounds for gossip. The Sunday that Alfred and Matthew started their year-long confirmation trainings, Mrs. Gregson’s son skipped town. Rumors were that he had a boyfriend up north and, to keep the peace between Mrs. Gregson and Mr. Gregson (the town’s biggest Bible-thumper, excluding the Presbyterians), he’d split quick.

“I knew from day one that that boy was being tempted by Satan,” muttered an older member of the congregation to her pew partner. “His parents let him get away with far too much.”

Alfred, who was sitting behind them with his head bent in prayer, shuffled closer on his knees to better eavesdrop.

“Oh, Greta, you can’t possibly mean that!” said the much younger woman, a disappointed look on her face.

“James 1:14, Dianne, James 1:14.” Then, like a wind-up toy, she recited, “But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.”

Dianna tutted, as if she didn’t agree with that logic, but the priest called for them to rise and sing before she could respond.

(Alfred’s church wasn’t hateful but hate existed there. It came naturally, almost honestly, with the unspoken disapproval of a relatively small congregation from their own small towns. These people existed in an echo chamber of their own design. Only, everyone was careful to voice their opinions when they felt it was safest.)

Later that night, Alfred typed into his browser: _will i go to hell if im gay._ The search engine pulled up some unhelpful Reddit threads and someone’s thesis paper about the word homosexuality in the Bible. Alfred wanted concrete answers. He wanted to talk to God himself, but short of a biblical miracle, that wasn’t happening.

* * *

The Jones family had been taking an annual vacation around Christmastime for forever, but that hadn’t deterred Mom’s religious habits. She’d carted them all to the Catholic church in town each Christmas Eve, without fail. Alfred hung onto the priest’s every word, adored the hymns about baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary and the three wise men. Even the Gospel made wearing his scratchy corduroy suit worth it.

This year, without Mom’s insistence weighing on them, they hadn’t gone to a Christmas service. Dad was Presbyterian, but not religious, and never seemed interested in supporting his kids’ efforts to maintain their relationship with God.

On Christmas Eve, Alfred stepped out onto the balcony to a slurry of snow. Matthew, who was already sitting beneath the awning with a mug of hot chocolate fresh from the room service cart, didn’t look away from the mesmerizing fall.

“Pretty,” Alfred said.

Matthew didn’t respond, not that Alfred expected him to. Matthew wasn’t the type to hold a grudge—any/all arguments with their father nonwithstanding—and earlier that day they’d been chasing one another down the slopes, their argument from the night before a distant memory already. Alfred couldn’t help but pick up on the lingering awkwardness, though he tried not to dwell on it.

He took the seat next to Matthew’s. His brother extended the mug wordlessly and Alfred took it, felt the warmth travel all the way to his core.

Once, a moment like this—quiet and peaceful, reverent in its beauty—never would’ve passed without Alfred sending a thankful prayer to the Big Man Upstairs. Mom taught them that they were Christians first, churchgoers second. Mom also taught them to use prayer for more than just help or guidance, but to thank God, too. _Think of how many people demand that He helps them each day,_ she’d said. _It must get so tiring! So, when you thank Him, He’ll be happy, and then, if you truly need Him, He’ll deliver._

Looking back on it, Alfred shouldn’t have been surprised that Mom tried to express God’s love as conditional.

Despite Mom’s best efforts, Alfred’s prayer habits diminished with his churchgoing habits. As weekend sports practices replaced Sunday mass and his mom slowly bled out of his life so did that direct line to God. The last time Alfred could remember getting on his knees to pray was in the hospital chapel last Christmas, fingers clenched bloodlessly around Arthur’s as they murmured desperate pleas to anyone, anyone at all, who might be listening.

(Arthur wasn’t interested in religion, had his own complicated past with the Protestants. He’d told Alfred as much even before they’d started… doing whatever it was they were doing. Whatever it was they did. But when Francis was in the hospital, Arthur flocked to his discarded religion. 

Alfred couldn’t blame him. If it’d been _Arthur_ who was bedridden, cheeks sunken with malnutrition, well. Alfred would demand that God answer him, too.)

“I can’t believe,” Matthew’s tone was oddly serious considering the next words to come out of his mouth were, “that you didn’t get with Emma.”

Alfred nearly spat out the dregs of his brother’s hot chocolate.

“ _What?_ ”

Matthew smiled softly, but there was an edge there, too.

“Man, you’re supposed to be the _expert_ _._ Did you even try?”

It’d been so long since Matthew tried to playfully jab at Alfred. He’d missed this side of his brother, more than he’d realized.

“Oh, you know, I gave it the ol’ college go,” Alfred said, with a playful nudge, “but in the end the Jones charm was wasted on her. She’s taken.”

“Makes sense. She’s cute,” Matthew said.

That should’ve signaled the end of their conversation, as Matthew lapsed back into silence, but one detail bothered Alfred.

“What’s this about me being the “expert”?” Alfred asked, with accompanying air quotes.

“Well, you know… the best at getting with girls. The expert at it.” Matthew rolled his eyes, clearly not wanting to drag this topic out. “I think it first started with Stacy.”

Alfred and Stacy began dating when they were sophomores. Weirdly, given her age, she was considered one of the hottest girls in school. Alfred remembered picking her with purpose, thinking that she would be the most logical choice for his girlfriend. He was popular, one of the first sophomores to ever make varsity, an all-star athlete. Naturally, the next step was to date a peppy cheerleader in his grade.

The other guys on the team—and, probably, the rest of the school—were jealous that Alfred scored Stacy. It was no wonder that they called him the “expert”. (It was actually "pussy expert", first dubbed by then fifth year senior Colin Wilson but Alfred wasn't about to correct his brother, on that.) If they knew the truth of it, though, they wouldn’t have any respect for him.

But this was Matthew. He could tell his brother anything; he wanted to lie to him even less.

Alfred was done lying to Matthew.

“Guys will say anything,” Alfred said. He stretched, faux-casual. “I mean, we slept together a couple times but it wasn’t great, or anything.”

Matthew’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline.

“Wait, seriously? But you dated for…”

“A year?” Alfred laughed. That was one way of putting what they did. “We did plenty of other stuff, but whenever we, y’know, banged it never worked right. Dunno how else to put it.”

Matthew threw him a sharp, disapproving look.

“Don’t use that word,” he said.

“What, banged?”

“Yeah. It’s impolite.”

“Jeez. Prude.”

His brother’s cheeks flushed, at that.

“I’m not a prude!”

“Psh, no need to be so defensive,” Alfred said, hands in the air. He grinned, egged Matthew on, “Ever slept with a chick?”

“Maybe. I’d rather not say.” So, no. Figures. Matthew huffed and crossed his arms. “Have you been with anyone else?”

Alfred was careful with his response’s wording.

“Not with any other chicks, no.”

“None?” Matthew said, shocked. Wasn't that an ego boost. “But what about that junior you liked—what was her name? You’re saying you guys never hooked up?”

Lisa Hargrove. Yes, Alfred remembered Lisa, she’s been two years ahead of them in school. Lisa was just like Stacy; head cheerleader, hotter than hell, ranked just a few notches lower on the bitch scale. Brunette, instead of Stacy's blond. 

Lisa’s boyfriend—Rick—was a blond. He played for the school’s baseball team. Lean guy with biting wit and a rare smile. Just Alfred’s type.

“I didn’t have a crush on Lisa,” Alfred protested.

This made Matthew laugh, a short, disbelieving noise.

“Right, okay, you spent our entire freshmen year going on about her—”

“I only said I liked her—” said Alfred, speaking over his brother because he wanted to prove his _point,_ (because they'd been hurtling toward this moment since the beginning of their trip, because Alfred couldn't bear to be alone in it any longer),“—so I had an excuse to look at Rick Coleman all day.”

The silence was deafening. Alfred realized, far too late, what he’d just admitted to. He wanted to take the words back, pull them from the air and bury them deep. Put them back where they belonged.

Of all the ways Alfred had imagined this moment—make no mistake, he’d done his time playing out this scenario—he’d never imagined it like this. Matthew’s carefree expression slowly transformed into confusion and then, worse, concern. He remained quiet. Alfred had to look away, into the empty cup he grasped, still.

He was immensely grateful that Dad was out on the slopes, for the first time the entire vacation, a late afternoon exercise. Alfred couldn’t handle this if his dad was in the room next door, possibly overhearing their conversation.

“Is it too late to say gotcha?” Alfred asked, going for teasing. It came out meek, instead, unusually soft. A sentence that folded in on itself. Alfred’s hands shook around the mug.

“Alfred, were you jealous of him or something? For dating Lisa?” Matthew said. Maybe he was confused, still, uncomprehending.

Alfred looked at Matthew and deliberately shook his head. If he opened his mouth right now, Alfred couldn’t say what noise might come out.

Matthew leaned forward in his chair, his arm outstretched in a comforting gesture that made Alfred shrink back against his own backrest.

“So, what _are_ you saying?”

Ha. Alfred didn’t know. After all this time—all this deliberation, and avoidance, and… and _hatred—_ was this seriously how it all came to a head? On their fucking hotel balcony over Rick goddamned Coleman?

Years of secrecy. _Years._ Practically Alfred’s whole life, it felt like, and _this_ was how the chips fell? 

Alfred’s life was a fucking joke. He laughed and it strangled him.

(At least it was on his own terms. At least he hadn't been outed, like other people Alfred knew. Some of which, Alfred'd helped out and oh, okay, that was a bad train of thought--)

“Do you need me to write it down? Spell it out for you?”

Mathew didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. Or pick up on it, one of the two.

“This is too serious to assume. But I understand if you can’t,” said Matthew, gently. So gently it almost broke Alfred’s heart.

“I—I don’t think I can—” Alfred stuttered, helpless in the face of his own terror. 

He couldn’t be here any longer. He needed to get out, get _away._ Wasn’t it ironic, that Alfred loved the limelight, loved to be the center of attention, but couldn’t stand to be seen?

Alfred scrambled out of his seat, forgetting about the mug in his lap. The drop was just a few feet but when it landed on the concrete floor it cracked clean down the middle.

Backing away from the mess—the mug and Matthew—forced Alfred to step toward the railing. Toward the ten-story drop. Alfred’s vision blurred out. He might be crying.

Matthew’s concerned face bordered on panicked now, swimming in Alfred’s vision as he stood from his own seat. Matthew _never_ panicked. Or, he did, but he hid it better than anyone Alfred had ever known. They were both good actors, in that way.

Except, Alfred was so _sick_ of pretending. That realization flayed him open.

“Hey,” said Matthew, like he was approaching a wounded animal. He touched Alfred’s shoulder, feather-light. “It’s okay. No pressure, Alfred, really. I can forget all about it if that’s what you want.”

Matthew, despite their parents’ best efforts, had resisted the traditional Jones family values and the Williams’ religious views. He did so quietly, without complaint, a stoic rebellion. Maybe it was time for someone else to make some noise around here, to stir things up.

Alfred didn’t want to forget. He’d already come this far.

Alfred swiped the tears pooling in his eyes. Old, familiar fear reared its ugly head when Alfred looked at his brother. Alfred didn’t run from it, this time.

“I’m—Matt,” said Alfred, choking on the words.

“No,” Matthew said, with a nervous smile. “I’m Matt.”

“You asshole, I’m trying to come out to you and you’re joking?” Despite it all, Alfred laughed at his own joke. “Who even are you?”

Before Alfred could process it, Matthew threw his arms around Alfred’s shoulders and pulled him in for a hug.

“I’m your brother,” Matthew said, fiercely, with more fervor than Alfred’d ever heard, from him. “I’m your brother and I'll always be here for you and I love you, Alfred. So much.”

Alfred hugged Matthew back, then, holding tight to his brother’s sweatshirt. He tucked his chin against Matthew’s shoulder—a reach, but Alfred managed. He sniffled, refused to let any more tears fall.

Stuck in this position, which avoided eye contact, made it easier for Alfred to say, “I’m gay.”

Matthew stiffened in his arms, shocked even though he’d known it was coming, and then he rubbed his palm in a soothing, circular motion across Alfred’s back. It was that, more than anything else about this scenario, that made Alfred burst into tears.

“Fuck, this is really… unawesome of me, man,” Alfred said, through his sobs.

Maybe a soft hushing noise and a pat on his back should’ve kept Alfred’s hysterics at bay. That’s what Matthew probably intended, anyway. But Alfred was anything but predictable.

Once he had ahold of himself, sometime later, Alfred pulled back. He felt disgusting—eyes swollen, glasses fogged, nose that could use a blow or two—but the soft, open expression on Matthew’s face was worth it. Still, old habits die hard, and Alfred shrunk away from his brother’s comfort.

“Betcha weren’t expecting that,” Alfred said, another poor attempt at a joke.

Matthew threw him a bone and chuckled. His eyes were rimmed with red, same as Alfred’s. He kept that small, encouraging smile, though. That more than anything grounded Alfred.

“I suspected… I thought something was up, when… but never realized…” Matthew huffed another laugh and started over. “Sorry. Guess I’m not as good at this as I thought.”

“No, you’re the best,” Alfred said, and then his mind supplied, _and I’m the worst._ He kept that to himself.

“Shit,” Alfred said, with a wet laugh, pointing to the broken cup. “I think we’ll be paying for that.”

“Let’s order another round,” Matthew said. “It’s chilly out here, anyway.”

Alfred hadn’t noticed but, yes, it was exceedingly cold. He and Matthew retreated into the comfort of their heated hotel room. Alfred ordered them two hot chocolates with extra whipped cream from room service. As he replaced the receiver, he glanced up to find Matthew already looking at him. Matthew leaned forward, so their knees almost touched in the narrow space between their beds.

“So, you’re…”

Now that the emotion had bled out of Alfred, he felt hollow, numb. He could say it again— _I’m gay_ —but felt that it might cause another round of tears for them both. Instead, he nodded tightly.

“Yep,” Alfred said. “And, and Matthew, I’m sorry, okay, I know you must be pissed that I lied to you for so long—”

“Not at all.” Matthew’s tone was firm, unyielding, but not unkind. “First of all, this conversation isn’t about me, except for how I can support you, got it?”

It seemed that he wanted an answer. Alfred nodded, wordlessly.

“Secondly, Alfred, I won’t ever hold a single mistruth against you, not about this,” Matthew said. “You're not a liar, and you're not a bad person, for this. Please believe me, in that.”

Alfred did. Any guilt he felt—like his Catholic guilt, leftover from confessions where he went home without giving the priest a _true_ list of his sins, because he could recognize anyone in the congregation from their voice alone—dissipated, slightly. He smiled wanly at Matthew but he felt, at last, somewhat stable.

Someone knocked on the door. Matthew sprung to attention, said, “That must be our drinks!” He returned carrying two mugs, balancing them carefully in each hand. Alfred took the cherry off the pile of whipped cream, bit into it first.

Matthew settled, criss cross apple sauce, back onto the bed.

“How long have you known?” he said.

That was a complicated mess of a question. Alfred’s instinct told him he’d truly known just two weeks ago, when he told Arthur he loved him for the first time and knew, despite what was required to continue the Jones legacy, that he’d never marry a woman. He always pinpointed his first true moment of _knowing_ when he first started dating Arthur, nearly a year ago to the day. But maybe it was earlier still, when they first hooked up and the mantra in Alfred’s head was _I’m not gay, I’m not gay, I’m not—_ a running protest, a useless denial.

Had Alfred known since he was a child, since he’d kissed Evan? Even before, maybe. 

“The short answer is since last Christmas.” But that was another lie, wasn’t it? “A part of me has always known, I think.”

Matthew nodded in the direction of their dad’s room.

“And I’m assuming _he_ doesn’t know?” he said, in a whisper.

Oh, Matthew. Alfred would never stop being grateful for him.

“No,” Alfred said, curtly. Despite his brother’s acceptance, he wouldn’t understand the _Dad Dilemma_ like Alfred did. “You’re actually the first person I’ve told. Wait… no, the second.”

 _Third,_ if Alfred counted Arthur, but considering Alfred had had Arthur’s dick in his mouth, he didn’t exactly count on the _People I’ve Come Out To_ list.

Matthew’s brow furrowed. He said, “Who was the first?”

“See, the thing is…”

Alfred told Matthew about his failed date with Emma—how neither of their hearts were in it, and Alfred’s reveal at the end. He kept the reason for his reveal, that Emma had confessed first, and Michelle out of it. He figured they wouldn’t appreciate him outing them like that. He also kept the details need-to-know only; he wasn’t ready to discuss Arthur. Not yet, not when it would send him into another round of hysterics.

But Alfred told Matthew. And then told Matthew about never liking any of his girlfriends enough to enjoy being with them, physically, and how he’d almost kissed one of their churchmates after Sunday service. And with each word, with each story, Alfred released a piece of himself into the world. And he let them linger, let them stay in the space between he and Matthew. And Alfred never once wished that things had turned out any other way.

(Alfred spent the rest of his vacation with Matthew on the slopes, or at the rink, or in their room watching bad Canadian television. Dad left them alone, for the most part, since their expectations as business accessories had been fulfilled. Alfred, for once, didn’t feel sad, rejected; he enjoyed his time apart from Dad.

The problem, Alfred knew, would be pretending more convincingly from now on. It was worth it for the respite, with just him and Matthew, that allowed him to be one hundred percent himself for the first time in, perhaps, forever.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole lotta OCs referenced/making guest appearances in this chapter, huh? Don’t worry, most of them won’t be showing up again.
> 
> I did NOT know that Canada’s like 67% catholic but hey, you learn something new every day. 
> 
> Thanks so much for the support on this fic so far, it means the world! Next chapter is a big one, folks, and it's like 50% written already. Things have been busy but hopefully I can get it out before too long!


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: just reiterating the internalized homophobia tag here and heavy use of the f-slur/other slurs in this chapter. 
> 
> There's one consent-related TW in here, too, about a character making an unwanted advance on another character. If you want to skip that scene, stop reading at: "“—telling these kids they’re not worthy of—wha-what’re you doing?” Arthur stammered, mid-rant." And pick up around: "Okay, so that backfired spectacularly." A scene description is in the end notes!

“A black coffee for you,” the waitress at the airport café said, setting the drink in front of Matthew, “and an iced mocha with three pumps of caramel and whipped cream. Can I get anything else for you two?”

Alfred shook his head and thanked her, already invested in his sweet drink.

Matthew watched their waitress walk away with a lovesick expression on his face. At a second glance, Alfred acknowledged that she was pretty; slim waist, dark hair, warm eyes. Just not Alfred’s type, of course.

As if reading his mind, Matthew turned back to Alfred and said, “Would you mind sitting here for a few more minutes?”

“Aw, you like her!” Alfred said, purposefully loud. A few people turned to look at them, but not the waitress. Damn, Alfred was rooting for Matthew on this one. He said, “Fair enough, she’s got a great…” while gesturing vaguely with his hands.

Matthew flushed scarlet and shrunk down into his seat. He took a tentative sip of his coffee.

“But she’s not what you’re... _ahem,_ looking for,” Matthew said, unsure.

Things were still slightly awkward with Matthew. Neither one of them knew how to navigate this topic; Matthew, because he didn’t want to offend Alfred and Alfred because, honestly, he’d never put as much thought into his preferences before. Alfred had always viewed himself as being two different, distinct people. There was the version that he wore while out in public, or around his family, or with his friends. The second version of himself existed like a double shadow, cast deep in secrets _._ After putting on a façade for so long, discomfort followed Alfred now that Matthew sought to understand, to know, this part of himself.

(Arthur was one of the only people who saw both sides of Alfred’s being. How terrifying it was, to be known.)

“No, although me a year ago would've said she's totally marriage material,” Alfred said, as he took a sip of his coffee. 

Matthew hummed, contemplatively before asking, “But you still thought you’d wind up with a woman? Even though you’re…”

Alfred glanced around the little café, to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Old habits, dying hard, blah blah blah. 

“It’s what Dad wants, so,” Alfred said. In some ways, it’s still what Alfred wanted, if only to please his father. He hated himself for that.

It’s not as though Alfred had never been interested in women. Or what he thought was interest, until he kissed Arthur for the first time. Like with Stacy. Alfred was into her, and all the positive attention she brought; dating Stacy granted Alfred even more popularity in school. Looking back, Alfred had been influenced by his friends telling him that she was attractive. Alfred just sort of… went along with it, for the social perks. And, objectively, yes, Stacy was attractive. But Alfred wasn’t attracted _to_ her.

Matthew looked like he might ask another question, so Alfred changed the subject.

“Hear there’s a new movie coming out starring that actress you like. The one who’s built like an hourglass.”

Matthew sighed—why, Alfred didn’t know, Matthew was always down to talk about film—but took the bait. They sat together until someone on the intercom announced their gate, meaning they had to throw away their trash and go meet Dad.

It was time to go home.

* * *

 ** _Despite only being just past eight,_** the bar-slash-venue was packed. The Flying Bagpipes were taking the show on the road, all the way across the pond, in fact. Alistair’s flight to Scotland was booked for two weeks from now, just before Halloween. He, and the band, were trying their luck abroad.

Matthew told Alfred all this during the car ride over. Apparently, the Whining Bagpipes had been asked to open for an even bigger band, one that Matthew happened to like. He dragged Alfred along because going to a concert alone _isn’t as fun, Alfred,_ and he pretended not to hear Alfred’s excuses about why he couldn’t go. The biggest reason being, of course, Arthur.

Alfred hadn’t seen Arthur since that fated night, right before the start of the school year. Their non-argument kept Alfred up for weeks. He felt so _guilty_ about the whole thing and he couldn’t explain why.

It’s not like he hadn’t tried to fix it. Alfred had texted Arthur the night of the game that he was sorry things didn’t work out with dinner, and, _hey man, wanna do a last hurrah snack run before school starts?_ No response. Alfred kept on texting him but, eventually, they went undelivered. Arthur had him blocked, the asshole, without giving Alfred a chance to understand where he’d gone wrong.

And Alfred _missed_ Arthur’s friendship. He missed shotgunning Monsters in the 7/11 parking lot and being forced to watch British reality TV and eating Arthur’s terrible cooking. Alfred had thought letting Arthur go would be easy. He’d been wrong.

Now, Alfred tried to ignore the weird churning in his gut as he lounged against the far wall with Matthew at his side. He kept skimming the crowd for that familiar head of blond hair but so far, Arthur was a no show. If Alfred knew anything about Arthur—which, at this point, it was fair to say he did—then he’d be here.

“Please stop fidgeting, you're stressing me out,” Matthew said. “Are you okay? You haven’t sat still this entire night.”

Not bothering to respond, Alfred looked across the crowd again, landing on the door just as Arthur walked in with a dark-haired boy trailing behind. Alfred’s breath caught in his throat.

 _Look at me,_ he thought, desperately, before mentally freezing. _Woah, calm down there, Alfred._

Arthur looked different, somehow. Alfred couldn’t place it. It was his hair, maybe, longer and more styled. It worked on him. Even in early October, a chill had set in and most people were already wearing their jackets. This included Arthur, who had a black leather number on over a faded t-shirt and dark jeans. The entire effect left Alfred reeling. Even in the low light of the bar, a spotlight seemed to follow Arthur wherever he went.

The dark-haired guy with Arthur put an overly casual hand on his shoulder. He leaned in and whispered something into Arthur’s ear that made Arthur tip his head back and laugh.

Alfred moved away from the wall without thinking, didn’t wait for Matthew who scrambled to catch up. He jostled gracelessly through groups of people to intercept Arthur on his way to the bar.

The dark-haired dude noticed Alfred approaching first. He reached for Arthur’s arm, as if to move him out of the way. Arthur turned his head, his confused expression morphing into something Alfred didn’t recognize. Or, something Alfred didn’t want to recognize, when it was directed at him.

“Hey man, what’s up!” Alfred said, purposefully casual, as he slapped a hand onto Arthur’s free shoulder. He glanced at their third wheel, and was satisfied to see that he was just slightly taller than the dude.

Alfred let his hand sit on Arthur’s shoulder for a few seconds longer than necessary. Arthur twitched before Alfred let go.

“Hello,” Arthur let his greeting hang in the air, chose to stare blankly at Alfred instead.

Alfred stared back. He hoped Arthur would take it as a challenge to speak first. To speak his mind. To resolve this tension building between them.

“Alfred, what the fri—oh, hi there, Arthur!” Matthew said, having just caught up with his brother.

Both Alfred and Arthur wrenched their attention away from one another. Alfred busied himself with a fraying string at the bottom of great grandpa Frank’s bomber jacket. Arthur chose to greet Matthew, a wide smile on his face, now that his attention wasn’t focused on Alfred. Alfred ignored how that stung.

Arthur’s friend still hadn’t spoken. He sized Alfred up like the Grade A jerk he probably was. Alfred smiled, closed-lipped, at him.

“What’re you two doing here?” Arthur asked, voice tight.

“Oh, we couldn’t miss the Flying Bagpipes’ last show!” Alfred interjected. Even though he wasn’t the best at reading people, all the time, he knew that Arthur’d directed that question to Matthew. But Alfred would be damned if he was going to allow himself to be ignored.

Arthur exchanged a long look with his friend. It looked like they were communicating telepathically, like they were characters in a comic book. Alfred fought to reign his jealousy in.

“The Whining Bagpipes’ music is great,” Arthur’s friend spoke at last. (The Whining Bagpipes, that’s what Alfred said, right?) The guy had an accent that Alfred couldn’t place. “My favorite of theirs is “Escape to the Highlands”.”

He seemed genuine, especially when he shared an easy grin with Matthew. Matthew, unused to receiving attention from strangers, smiled back. Alfred would’ve preferred if he were a jerk, honestly, although he didn’t want to explore why.

“Yeah! That’s my favorite album, too,” Alfred said, loudly, attracting the attention of not only his three fellow conversationalists but of a few surrounding people, too.

“ _Ele vai com as outras,_ ” the guy mumbled under his breath.

“Hello, _hablo español_?” Alfred asked with a smile, waving a hand in front of the guy’s face. He didn’t like to be talked about, okay, and he had a feeling this guy insulted him in whatever language he’d been speaking.

“Alfred!” Matthew gasped, soft enough that neither Arthur nor his friend seemed to hear.

The guy frowned and started to say, in a tone far less than friendly, “Up yours, too, son of a—"

“I’m so sorry, João, I’ll sort this,” Arthur said, sugary sweet and totally not like him at all. He turned to Alfred with a scowl, hissing, “Outside. Now.”

They left Arthur’s friend (date?) by the bar with a red-faced Matthew. Alfred followed Arthur wordlessly, feeling like a chastised child.

The last time Alfred was here, a warm summer breeze greeted them when they stepped outside. Alfred would trade that night for this one for so many reasons, the most immediate being the stiff chill in the air. He turned his collar up and was grateful for the jacket’s fleece lining.

A few people stood around smoking, huddled together to preserve warmth. A long line stretched from the ticket counter to the edge of the block, just like the last concert. There were too many people, and Alfred only enjoyed causing a scene when he was in control. So, he started walking wordlessly toward the opposite side of the building, where a narrow alleyway was visible.

The building next door had a lewd display in the window, the frame wrapped with pink and red LED lights; it was a sex shop. Alfred’s life was a fucking joke, honestly. The residual light from the store, plus a bare bulbed light set into the bar’s wall, provided for a surprisingly well-lit alleyway. The farthest corners held a fair amount of trash, though, so Alfred settled somewhere in the middle; far enough away from everyone that they wouldn’t be overheard, but close enough that Alfred could make a quick getaway if necessary.

He rounded on Arthur with a smile. He hoped it seemed less forced than it was.

“What’s up? How’ve you been, by the way, it’s been forever!”

There wasn’t much room between them, just a few feet. When Arthur exhaled in a visible cloud, Alfred felt it on his face.

“What was that, in there?” Arthur pointed toward the lip of the alleyway.

“I just wanted to say hi,” Alfred said, couldn’t help but feel defensive. It was well within Alfred’s rights to greet a friend, even if they weren’t talking at the moment, apparently. “You don’t have to act like it’s the second Revolution, man.”

“God save the queen—” Arthur mumbled under his breath, which, _what._ “Must I spell it out for you?”

As much as Alfred loathed being talked down to (he might be bad with school stuff but he didn’t get to be so popular without some common sense. He wasn’t a total moron.), he desired answers more.

He swallowed his pride to say, “Yes. Please.”

Arthur nodded, once, firmly. He also squared his shoulders and set his jaw. He looked ready for battle.

“How do I saw this nicely?” Arthur said. “Oh, screw it. This summer was fun, but I’m not sure if we can continue our friendship as it was before. If at all.”

Maybe Alfred should’ve seen this coming. The avoidance, the unanswered texts, the weirdness tonight. That didn’t make it hurt any less. Alfred crossed his arms as if to protect his vulnerable insides.

“Dude. What the fuck?” said Alfred, no longer able to maintain his fake cheery attitude but still resisting the urge to yell outright. “What’d I do?”

“I’ve heard things about you,” Arthur said. “Nasty sorts of things.”

Ah, shit. That could be anything. Maybe Arthur heard about the time he went cow tipping with the boys and they were tossed into a holding cell for the night? That was forever ago. Or, could it be about the one and only time Alfred smoked weed? No one was supposed to know about that, save for Ivan and Yao, because Alfred couldn’t stop coughing and…

Maybe Arthur heard about the spray paint incident. It was nasty, alright, more so than that other stuff. It would also be easier to clear up, because, well, it hadn’t been him.

“I didn’t do it, and if I did I would’ve bragged about it! Not that I would’ve done something like that,” Alfred said with a laugh. “I mean, I hate the kid but I’m not a total jerk.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward, right into Alfred’s space, a look of suspicion on his face.

“What are you talking about?” Arthur said.

Oh. Maybe he was referring to something else. Alfred could try and turn the conversation back to Arthur but had a feeling he wouldn’t let it go. Honesty was the best policy, and Alfred didn’t want to look even more guilty.

“I, ahem.” Alfred scratched the back of his head. “Someone painted fag onto this kid Ludwig’s locker freshmen year. Wasn’t me though. What’re you talking about?”

Arthur flinched. He mumbled, “Hate that word,” into his collar.

“Shit,” Alfred said. He glanced away, deep into the recesses of the alleyway. “Didn’t mean it like that, just stating the facts.”

“What, that Ludwig Beilschmidt is a _fag_? Is that all he is to you?” Arthur said, in an accusatory way that Alfred didn’t like at all. First off, Alfred barely knew Ludwig.

(Apparently Arthur did.)

Secondly, “But he is, though? He’s a dude that likes sticking it in other dudes, or getting stuck, or whatever, and that makes him a—”

“Don’t say it again,” Arthur cut him off with an accompanying slashing motion of the hand. He scowled deeply at Alfred; when he took a step back, it placed him directly beneath the bar’s outside light. A moth hit the yellow lantern and crackled its way to an early death.

Shame flushed across Alfred’s face and he couldn’t explain why. He’d never felt ashamed of himself before with this sort of thing. It was just a word, Alfred always justified, and it’s not like it wasn’t applicable, right? Ludwig (Arthur) _was_ a—

“Francis was right about you,” whispered Arthur, the sound of it almost carried away by a sudden breeze ripping through. It carried the sound of concert goers chattering, just outside the alleyway, with it.

“You still talk to Francis? That guy’s a loser—”

“He’s doing great, actually. He’s in fashion school!”

“Oh, well, good for Francis!” Alfred said. That deep, _green_ monster inside him reared its ugly head. They never spoke about Francis, or when they did it was pretty insulting stuff. Arthur wasn’t one to grant false praise.

Except now, Arthur defended Francis so gallantly, the guy who’d broken his heart or whatever. But he wouldn’t hear Alfred out? Alfred scoffed at Arthur’s hypocrisy.

Arthur’s gaze snapped to his, momentarily startled. He froze, one hand clasped around the base of his neck. A few strands of hair hung down into his eyes. It was an exceptionally good look, Alfred decided, for Arthur to sport.

“Francis told me that you’re a terrible bully,” said Arthur, slowly. His voice shook. “I asked him about you after your game. The, eugh, _football_ game. I didn't want to believe it at first, because it didn't sound like you.”

Alfred shrunk back against the wall, suddenly feeling very, _very_ small.

“It's not, I swear," pleaded Alfred. Then, he tentatively asked, "What convinced you?” 

“Besides this conversation?” Where had Alfred gone wrong with this conversation? “Francis told me the lot of it. What intrigued me were the stories about you pushing people into lockers. I thought, "that's literally schoolyard bullying, Alfred wouldn't do that." And _then_ I remembered some of the comments you made about your classmates this summer. Some of the _homophobic_ comments."

Alfred glanced away, unable to meet Arthur's eyes. It's not as though Arthur was wrong about any of it, although Alfred wouldn't label himself as a bully.

"You didn't stick up for me that night. Your girlfriend is a lovely person, by the way," Arthur said, full of sarcasm. "And the pieces fell together. If you aren't a bully, you're at least a coward, and that's worse." 

Alfred could try and explain it; those guys were lower on the totem pole than Alfred and his friends. High school had these unspoken rules, and in order to maintain his position at the top, Alfred had to follow them to a T. Date the hottest cheerleader on the team? Check. Become captain and quarterback of the football team? Check. Shove losers into lockers because they had weird haircuts or were in the spring musical or happened to be gay? Check. Alfred preferred to think of it as gentle, social schoolings. Someone had to teach these dudes how to act and keep them in their place, or else they’d get too cocky. Alfred couldn’t have his position as top dog threatened by some loser. 

There was also the fact that, every time Alfred saw those guys around school, he got so irrationally angry. He couldn’t explain it. How dare Feliciano and Ludwig prance around the halls, hand-in-hand, as if they were proud to be together? Didn’t they know it was easier to just bend under the ridicule and hatred, to just let it consume them? They should’ve conformed long ago, in Alfred’s opinion, and someone had to remind them of that.

It’s not as if Alfred wanted them to be unhappy. He just wished they would go be happy somewhere else. He wished they would go be _sinners_ somewhere else _,_ the insidious voice in his head whispered, although Alfred got pretty good at shutting that out, at this point. He wasn’t sure which direction Ludwig and Feliciano would go when they died—although Alfred had his own opinions, and they all pointed to downstairs—so he left that to some of his friends who might know better.

(Alfred had a distinct memory from last year of his teammates giving Lovino a swirlie while chanting, “Satan waterboards fags!” It’s not as if Alfred did anything to stop it.)

“Dude, no, I’m, like, the _hero_ who’s saving them from themselves!” Alfred said, trying to put a positive spin on it.

Arthur stared at him with open disgust on his face, now.

“From being gay?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

Alfred regretted it immediately. Of all the stupid, insensitive things Alfred had said to Arthur, that had to take the cake. Arthur was…of the male persuasion, as Dad might say. He didn’t need to know how much Alfred disliked the sight of two dudes holding hands.

Besides, Arthur was just a normal guy who did normal guy stuff, not like the Vargas twins or Ludwig. He watched Formula 1 races and listened to rock music, after all. He could be fruity, but if Alfred didn’t know him, he might not assume that Arthur was into dudes. Arthur was totally different than the other gay kids Alfred knew.

Alfred watched Arthur’s mouth pucker, as if he’d swallowed something sour. He glanced skyward, a firm focal point, as he spoke.

“And how does that not make you—ugh, you know _I’m_ gay.” Arthur jabbed his finger into his chest to emphasize the point. Like there was any confusion. “It’s the first time I’ve told you outright, as such, but you must’ve known.”

“Yeah,” Alfred said. What else _could_ he say?

Arthur’s gaze snapped back, then, and he stared at Alfred’s face for so long that Alfred began to wonder if he had something on it. He swiped at his mouth but his hand came up clean. No leftovers from dinner, good.

“How are you not grasping this? Alfred, we cannot be friends if you treat other gay people like that. It’s like you’re pushing _me_ into that locker, do you understand?” said Arthur.

Alfred didn’t like that mental image. He would never hurt Arthur, not if he could help it. Not even if it meant giving up on his _gentle, social schoolings._

“I-shit. I would _never—_ ” Alfred swiped at his mouth again, if only to give him a chance to recover. He was at a loss, here. “What do you want me to say?”

“I’m not sure,” Arthur said, throwing his arms up in clear frustration. “How about you admit that you’re a fucking homophobe and that you’re wrong and tell me you’ll apologize to them. And then maybe, _maybe,_ we can be friendly again. Not friends, _friendly_.”

Ah, there was that homophobic label, again. See, Alfred didn’t truly believe that he was homophobic. It’s not like he wanted gay people around him, per se (current company nonwithstanding), but he didn’t have a precise problem with them, either. Dad always said it was _sick_ and _wrong,_ and Alfred tended to agree. It always made him uncomfortable and a bit heated, honestly, when he pictured two guys getting it on. Not his cup of tea, as Arthur might say.

In theory, Alfred didn’t hate gay people, not like some of his classmates did. He didn’t have a problem with them, even. They could do whatever they wanted. Just not near him, where they might rub off on him. He’d been tempted once, after all, with Evan, and it wouldn’t happen again.

So, the only conclusion was that Alfred wasn’t a homophobe and Arthur had it all screwed around.

“One problem.” Alfred held up a finger. “I’m not homophobic.”

Arthur sighed. He tucked his chin into his collar, eyes fluttering closed. The shadows beneath his eyes appeared cavernous in this light.

“Alfred. Please, I can’t—“ he said, sounding exhausted.

“Seriously. I’m not!” Alfred exclaimed, arms pinwheeling against his will. It’s only, he wanted Arthur to understand his standpoint, already. What wasn’t he grasping?

He’d been tempted by Evan, once. But this was leagues away from their near kiss in the dark. Alfred needed to prove himself to Arthur. That was it. No temptation, no attraction, required. Actions speak louder than words, and this action would blow Francis’ stupid, overblown _rumors_ out of the water.

(Alfred wasn't a coward. He _wasn't._ Taking bold action could easily disprove that.)

“You can’t be serious—"

Arthur looked really, _really_ good in that jacket. His anger should’ve angered Alfred. But in the sallow, confusing light with the sound of the concert blaring over the speakers and the cheering crowd, audible even through the brick, Alfred found that he could watch Arthur rant forever. Passion, even that born of anger, changed Arthur. It was captivating.

Alfred took a step forward. That’s all it took, to bring them face-to-face. Alfred had to bend, slightly, to get as close as he wanted.

“—telling these kids they’re not worthy of—wha-what’re you doing?” Arthur stammered, mid-rant.

Alfred placed one of his hands onto Arthur’s shoulder, feather light. The leather was cool beneath his touch.

Alfred maintained eye contact as he used his free hand to tip Arthur’s head up, forefinger on his jaw and thumb stroking his chin. Arthur exhaled, the air between them grew warm. Mouth slightly open, pink lips framing that dark maw, eyes half-lidded now, and Arthur looked positively erotic like this.

Woah, okay, Alfred should get to making his point, already.

“Okay, but would a homophobe do this?” Alfred muttered into the open air, before closing the scant inches between them.

Before the kiss could land, though, Arthur braced his palms against Alfred’s broad chest and pushed him back. It was a surprising display of strength, enough to send Alfred reeling into the opposite wall. It knocked the breath from his lungs. He braced himself against his knees and gasped for air.

When Alfred gathered his courage to raise his head—not a very _hero-esq_ thing to do, but Alfred didn’t feel like a hero, at the moment—Arthur stared back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as if wiping away the nonexistent kiss. Arthur wore a look of open betrayal on his face. That stung more than the rejection.

Still. Alfred had proven his point, that he was comfortable enough with gay people to almost kiss one, so why did he feel so crummy?

“You’re such an asshole,” Arthur said. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. “I really don’t need this right now, Alfred. Please, just leave me alone.”

Alfred couldn’t bear to watch him leave. He focused on the grimy concrete until the sounds of the crowd outside eclipsed Arthur’s footsteps. Only then did he sink to his knees and back onto his ass, head in his hands.

Okay, so that backfired spectacularly. Alfred wanted to chase after Arthur, to explain that he'd only tried to plant one on him as a last resort. To convince him he wasn't a coward and was blameless in one fell swoop. 

That made him curl into himself further. Alfred might not be homophobic, but he wasn't _gay,_ either. And kissing his friend was pretty gay. Being rejected by his friend was also pretty gay, and wounded Alfred’s pride more than he’d like to admit.

One thing was for certain; Alfred ruined their friendship tonight. No, he'd effectively taken it out back and shot it between its eyes. Not that Alfred wasn’t clinging to scraps, already, by begging Arthur to not walk away from the time they’d spent together. The memories they’d created. Was Alfred really that starved for friendship, that he couldn’t let the one faggy kid he’d known for five months go?

Alfred had plenty of friends. More friends than Arthur, that was for sure. More friends and a better love life, too, and _oh shit,_ Stacy.

Stacy didn’t like it when other girls so much as looked at Alfred. Shit, she would consider this cheating. Explaining to her that he did it to prove a point, not because he was interested in Arthur ( _duh, gross_ ), wouldn’t make any difference to her. This would have to go to his grave.

(Dad. Alfred didn’t have to imagine what Dad would say about Alfred’s little stunt. He already knew. Those thoughts— _talk with your fists not your lips, boy, and handle these freaks like a man_ —Alfred couldn’t block out.)

Guilt, disgust, and anger all rolled through him like a sickening, tumbling wave.

If Arthur had let Alfred kiss him, what then? Their lips would’ve met in a warm embrace—that would’ve been grounds of cheating _for sure_ —and Arthur might have carded a hand through Alfred’s hair, at the base of his neck, body moving to instinctually slot against Alfred’s, and—

“I didn’t want to kiss him,” Alfred whispered. If he verbalized it, it would be true. “I didn’t.”

He was so, so screwed.

Alfred managed to dial his brother’s number despite his trembling fingers. He couldn’t tell if it was caused by the cold or leftover nerves. Alfred’s stomach protested and he had to fight the urge to be sick. Even his own body knew how fucked it was, to try and kiss another dude.

“Alfred?” Matthew said when he picked up, over the din of people talking over one another. The first set must’ve been over because there wasn’t any music in the background. Alfred missed the Flying Bagpipes’ performance. Dammit, that sucked.

“Hey,” Alfred said. “I’m ready to go home. Can you come outside?”

“What? The main act hasn’t even gone on yet—”

In the background, someone that sounded a lot like Arthur said, “Five bloody minutes since they got offstage—”

A soft puff of air on Alfred’s lips, nearly as warm as Arthur’s lips would be, had Alfred been given a chance to taste them—

Fuck. Alfred tipped his head back until the crown of his head hit the brick. He slammed it against the wall and watched the stars dance in his vision. They distracted from the tears.

“Look, I never asked to get dragged along, okay?” Alfred snapped, patience worn thin. “I don’t feel well, can we please just—”

“Alright,” Matthew sounded weary, but he crumbled, just like Alfred expected him to. “Give me five.”

Matthew kept his concern hidden when he met Alfred a few minutes later in the parking lot across the street. Alfred clutched his stomach with one hand, admitting to Matthew that it ached but not telling him why. They didn’t speak on the way home, an indication that Matthew was pissed. For once, Alfred let the silence sit. If he opened his mouth, who knew what would come out.

It took five showers for Alfred to feel clean, that night. He scrubbed until the skin on his back peeled red and raw. He sunk beneath the covers and prayed for dreamless sleep. It was a long time coming. 

* * *

Dad had disappeared at some ungodly hour that morning, and Matthew hadn’t been long after. Dad, at least, had his all-day meeting—even though Alfred thought he’d taken the New Year off—but who knows where Matthew got off to. He had unnamed _plans,_ though, so Alfred hadn’t pushed. Even Matthew needed time for himself, now and then. 

Logically, Alfred knew that Arthur was coming over on New Year’s Eve. He’d invited him, after all. It still caught him completely off guard when, upon returning from a run around the neighborhood mid-morning, Alfred arrived to find Arthur’s little blue car parked outside his house.

Flying Mint Bunny faced opposite from oncoming traffic. Alfred shook his head fondly, because even though he’d lived in the ‘States for years, Arthur still got directionally confused. Alfred gave the car’s hood a sympathetic pat as he jogged up to his front door.

Arthur was _here_. To return Alfred’s junk. That included the keys to the side gate and house that he’d used to sneak in time and time again, slipping down the stairs by the kitchen and into the basement guest room, where they could carry on without Dad hearing them in the great big house.

(Alfred never needed a key to sneak into Arthur’s place, although it was generally off limits due to Arthur’s siblings. Plus, a twin sized bunk bed was nothing against a queen, with plenty of space to roll around and…)

Alfred missed that. He really, really missed that. Not the sex, necessarily, but the time they’d been given. He’d always anticipated that they’d have more of it.

Alfred steeled himself against the door, bracing against it with an arm over his head so he could tuck his chin to his chest. He had to catch his breath before he went in there. He didn’t know if it was because he’d been running or…

Or because Arthur waited behind that door. Right. Alfred twisted the knob.

Arthur was sitting on the living room couch, looking out of place in an oversized button-up black sweater and his scuffed converse. Alfred froze with the door half-open, even though he’d been expecting this. Because Arthur looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He had deep creases beneath his eyes and his cuticles were picked bloody. A small cardboard box rested next to him on the couch. Huh, Alfred thought there’d be more to account for, between them. He swallowed heavily.

“Didn’t we agree you’d only use the key at night?” Alfred said, and knew it was the wrong thing to say by the way Arthur’s face twisted up. His eyes darted up to meet Alfred’s—as wide and green as an open forest, and full of hurt.

“That was the rule when we were dating,” said Arthur, spitting the word _dating_ like it meant something filthy. “But I needed to bring you your shite.”

Alfred smiled, more of a quirk of the lips really, and provoked him.

“How many times have I told you, Artie? It’s _shit_.”

The jab was accompanied by Alfred stepping into the hall, slamming the door behind him. A good twenty feet separated them but Arthur’s anger transcended the space.

“ _You’re_ shit,” Arthur said, rocketing off the couch.

God, he was such a little ball of angry energy, always. Alfred missed that, especially in the bedroom. _Not the time,_ Alfred told his dick, but his dick didn’t want to listen. He remembered all those times late at night, when Arthur was balls-deep inside him and the sweat slicked between them like water on a slip-n-slide. Alfred curled his fingers into his palm so his fingernails cut there, the pain sharp enough to draw his thoughts away. He couldn’t be thinking like that, not right now. He needed to have a clear head for this conversation.

Alfred offered Arthur another, less-genuine smile, and took the few steps so they were in the same room. Arthur glared at him. The only thing separating them was the coffee table.

“That the stuff?” Alfred asked.

The offending box sat inconspicuously on the couch, unaware that it was tearing the hole in Alfred’s heart wide open.

Arthur had the sense to look ashamed. He ducked his head and nodded as his shoulders slumped. Alfred made a half-step around the coffee table and caught a glimpse of Arthur’s face, all closed-off and cold. He wouldn’t even look at Alfred, and a cold bead of dread dripped down Alfred’s spine.

At times like this, Alfred would normally pull Arthur into his arms and rub a soothing hand over his sandy blond hair. Arthur got these dark moods where he could hardly get out of bed sometimes. The first time Alfred saw it was when Francis went into the hospital last Christmas. The then-first and only experience with Arthur’s dark mood left Alfred shaken and fairly distressed, himself. Alfred watched as Arthur withdrew completely in the waiting room and, a few hours later, curling over Francis’ prone form with empty eyes. No matter how hard Alfred tried—no matter how much he purposefully annoyed Arthur, a forced nonchalance that Alfred found difficult to fake—he couldn’t get Arthur to speak. Not until the chapel.

That steady withdrawal had predictability. Alfred watched for its signs in Arthur’s face, now. Slowly, Alfred took another step around the coffee table, so he stood beside Arthur.

Then, Arthur blinked and drew back. He was shorter than Alfred by what Alfred always said was half a foot, and what Arthur always said was about two inches. Still, Arthur looked _up_ at Alfred, and then he scrunched up his nose in obvious disgust. The caterpillars he called eyebrows pulled down low over his eyes.

“You smell,” Arthur said dryly.

Alfred’s breath went out of him all at once. Of course, _of course,_ that’s what Arthur was worried about right now. 

“I just went for a run, of course I—never mind, whatever, it’s not worth it.”

That, for some reason, seemed to surprise Arthur. It was like emotional whiplash with him today. He shook his head at Alfred.

“Since when is something not worth fighting about, with you? Oh, wait, I can think of a few examples.”

Alfred peeked into the box instead of responding to Arthur’s obvious goading. His spare house key, and the key to the gate, were laying on top of a few folded sweatshirts and miscellaneous junk, including a bottle of lube and a toy fire engine. Alfred didn’t even think some of this stuff was his, but he wasn’t going to push it.

Digging into the box further revealed a few books and a baseball hat. At the very bottom, wedged into a fold in the box’s flaps, was a small glass bracelet. _The_ bracelet. Alfred dropped it as if burned, let the rest of the junk fall back to obscure it.

“Well, I’m not fighting about it, so you’re wrong,” Alfred snapped. “Thanks for letting yourself into my house just to give me a bunch of junk back that I don’t need. You’re really doing the most, since we’re over and all.”

( _Francis,_ Alfred’s internal monologue screamed at him, _Francis, he’s going to hang out with Francis later, he doesn’t want—_ )

Alfred refused to stick around any longer. If he didn’t get out of this room soon, he might go rooting back through the box for pieces of memories. For the bracelet.

“What?” Arthur said, following Alfred even as Alfred walked out of the room. “Wait, is this… is this fight about the fact that we’re _not fighting?_ Are you really that childish?”

Alfred climbed the stairs, gripping the bannister as if he might go flying off without the anchor. He might, at Arthur.

Arthur followed Alfred up the stairs, shouting, “If walking away from an argument was a sport, you’d have the gold medal—”

At the landing, Alfred spun around, and was happy to see he towered over Arthur now, since Arthur stood a few steps down. He seemed to shrink away from Alfred—so maybe he was better at arguing with people’s backs. Who was the coward now?

“You’re calling me childish? I’m not the one who ambushed my boyf— _ex_ -boyfriend—at his house with a box of shit!”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. It was a terrifying sign.

“ _Ambushed,_ oh please, don’t be so dramatic. You told me to come!”

“I didn’t think you were gonna follow through!” The truth, although Alfred hadn’t realized it until now.

“I’m returning stuff that’s yours, you idiot, that’s the most mature thing I could do!”

Alfred laughed and said, “You _insulted_ me!”

“I did not!”

“You said I smelled!”

“So what? It's the truth.”

Alfred stepped back, stepped away, because this whole thing was starting to feel a little too much like foreplay for his liking. A feeling that might’ve been lust, or maybe hope, clenched low in his gut. He held up both hands, he had to show surrender. He felt a little too irrational, a little too wild, and if his hands weren’t where he could see them, he might put them in places they might not be welcome.

“Fine, then I’ll go shower. If that would make you feel better about my smell, that is.”

Arthur’s hand spasmed on the railing. The furious look had dropped straight off his face only to be replaced with a purposefully neutral glaze. His face was a mask, underneath which Arthur’s true emotions brewed. Alfred couldn’t tell which decision Arthur would make—stay or go—but Alfred didn’t stick around to find out.

He had his shirt off and the water running by the time that Arthur arrived in the bathroom, missing one shoe and tugging off the other. He threw the sneaker onto the ground. It bounced off the tile pitifully.

“Maybe I should’ve waited outside, but in my defense, you gave me your key,” Arthur said, like that made any kind of difference.

Alfred rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, to use when we were together, numbskull.”

Alfred stuck a hand under the water. It was warm enough, he decided. With that, he hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband of his running shorts and started to pull them down.

“That’s completely out of the—w-what are you doing?” Arthur asked incredulously.

“Taking my clothes off, what does it look like? Nothing you haven’t seen anyway, sweetheart.”

The wink Alfred threw in at the end was too much, but he did it anyway just to spite Arthur. It worked, because Arthur went beet red, and not because the bathroom was steamy from the shower. Alfred stepped into the spray but didn’t pull the curtain closed, yet. Water spilled onto the floor.

“Wait a minute, you arsehole, we’re not done here!” Arthur declared, though he didn’t sound very angry at all anymore. It was possible that Alfred didn’t catch his tone right because Arthur’s head was currently trapped beneath his sweater. That he was pulling off. Arthur was pulling off his sweater. In Alfred’s bathroom.

Alfred wished that he wasn’t naked. Was Arthur going to get in here with him? The thought sent a shot of heat right to his dick, which was already at half-mast. Fuck. _Fuck._

And then Arthur was fully naked— _fully naked,_ Alfred had missed his delicate collar bones and ropey arm muscles that were anything but delicate—and stepping into the shower right next to Alfred.

“Right, so we’re settling this. I didn’t break in.”

Arthur said it confidently. But there was still the matter of, “Artie. You’re _in my shower_.”

Arthur’s mouth worked hopelessly and, with nothing to say, he worried the bottom lip between his teeth. His chest heaved, just a bit, and Alfred refused to look any further down. That would be it for him—even if Arthur was totally soft, seeing his dick again might make Alfred lose his shit.

Not that he would ever do anything against Arthur’s will, ( _of course not,_ not after their first, failed kiss,) but he was standing right there, all wet and dripping and naked. Alfred could only take so much.

“I can literally hear the cogs turning up there, you think so loud,” Arthur snapped, but it wasn’t really that, more of a gentle chiding, meant to draw Alfred out of his thoughts. Needless to say, Arthur didn’t use that tone often.

It did the trick—Alfred blinked at Arthur, watching the way Arthur worked his bottom lip back and forth, the way Arthur swayed a little on his feet. The shower spray flattened his hair against his forehead. He met Alfred’s eyes and Alfred couldn’t put a name to the emotion he saw swirling in his irises.

“What were we talking about again?” Alfred asked, feeling breathless again but for an entirely different reason this time.

Arthur shook his head, said, “I don’t—it doesn’t even—Alfred—”

The neediness in his voice did it, that whine of Alfred’s name undid him. He pushed aside his lingering anger, his lingering hurt, and guilt, and frustration. Alfred’s hands touched Arthur’s cold, _always so cold,_ forearms, hardened by a thin layer of muscle. They were so close, _so close_ , lips almost touching, but Alfred might never be able to forgive himself if he wasn’t absolutely sure—

“Can I please kiss you?”

Alfred was honestly proud of how polite that sounded. He didn’t have too much time to revel in it, but it didn’t matter, because Arthur nodded and then he pressed his lips to Alfred’s in a clumsy, desperate kiss.

God, he’d missed the way Arthur kissed, all tongue and no grace. It was so dirty—Alfred groaned when Arthur licked at the seam of his lips. Of course, he let Arthur in, he always let him in, and then their mouths crushed against one another, tongues too, and Alfred could get lost in this kind of violence.

They had never done this before. In the shower. They’d fucked just about every other place imaginable, but the shower made noise at night. Alfred had a big house but his parents might notice if the water was running at three in the morning. It had never been a fantasy of his, anyway. Not until now, at least. This would feed his spank bank for years.

Alfred pulled back, slightly, rubbed his thumb across Arthur’s cheekbone. Arthur’s eyes remained closed, lashes darkened by water like slashed, bleeding wounds.

“Hand over the soap, dirty boy,” Arthur said, tone too low to be teasing. He held out his hand without further explanation.

He reached blindly for the soap in its dish. Alfred plopped the bar into Arthur’s open palm and let himself be soaped up. It was strangely erotic, Alfred realized, Arthur silently rubbing the suds across Alfred’s back. He acted unusually shy, Arthur, gaze downturned and face flushed.

As Arthur’s hands caressed his hips—seemingly done with the charade of getting him clean—Alfred’s heart constricted tightly. A whine that’d been building in his throat this entire time wrenched itself free. He _wanted_ Arthur in every possible way. How had he let himself be so stupid for this long?

Overcome, Alfred slowly wrapped his arms around Arthur. He pressed his nose into Arthur’s mop of dirty blond hair and inhaled. He smelled of sandalwood and those teas he was always drinking and of Alfred’s soap, just a little. So familiar it ached.

“Artie,” Alfred whimpered, even as he trailed his hands down Arthur’s side to settle at his hips.

Alfred wanted to map every expanse of Arthur’s skin again, but it already felt like he was operating on borrowed time here. Instead, Alfred shuffled forward, arms still wrapped around Arthur’s body in a delicate embrace, so they were both slotted together under the warm spray. Alfred could feel Arthur’s dick pressed tightly against his hipbone—he was fully hard, which Alfred mentally high-fived himself about.

Arthur’s breath caught and when Alfred met his eyes again he was surprised to find them wide and terrified. Alfred moved his hands up to frame Arthur’s face, pushing wet strands of hair out of the way. He tried to be soothing, but it made Arthur’s eyes impossibly wider.

“What’s wrong?” Alfred asked.

Arthur just shook his head and rocked backward onto his heels, separating them if only by just a few inches. The skin on Alfred’s thighs and stomach prickled, as if it could breach the space between them.

“Nothing,” Arthur said. An obvious lie. He was panicking. So was Alfred, maybe. A bit. “Everything. I can’t be with you.”

Fucking. Ouch. Alfred flinched, hated the way that Arthur’s eyes widened with concern at his reaction.

“Ha, picked up on that when you ended things,” Alfred said, with a forced smile. He popped open the shampoo just for something to do.

“No, then it was you not wanting to be with me,” Arthur said. He seemed uncomfortable. Good. “It’s not as though it makes a difference, we’re not together.”

Alfred squeezed a quarter-sized dollop of shampoo into the palm of his hand and lathered it into his hair. He gave Arthur a grim smile.

“Gotcha, and now you have someone better,” he said, a touch sarcastic. Was this how Matthew felt, when he got all snippy? It was vindicating, Alfred needed to try this more often.

Arthur’s face twisted up in confusion. Something else brewed there, too, something bordering on anger.

“Someone better?”

Did he think Alfred was stupid?

“Francis,” Alfred said, as if explaining it to a child. “Who else did ya’ think I meant?”

“I-you’re ridiculous! I’m not fucking Francis.”

Arthur’s face said differently; he went bright red. Ah, gotcha. When Arthur turned that color, it meant he’d been caught in a lie.

“Right, okay, just dating him, again, now that I’m out of the picture,” Alfred said. He tipped his head back so he could get the shampoo out of his hair.

(He tipped his head back so he could blink furious tears back in peace.)

“ _No._ Anyway, that’s different,” Arthur said, frustratingly earnest for a liar.

Still, his tone caught Alfred’s attention. Enough that he looked back at Arthur. Oh, Arthur, he bared his teeth in a scowl. He looked _hurt,_ too, Alfred realized, a crunch to his brow. Alfred wanted to reach out, to comfort him, and yet—

“Why?” Alfred said.

“Because, apparently, we weren’t even dating!” Arthur yelled, gesturing between them, and it would’ve been amusing if it wasn’t so _heartbreaking._

“What?” Alfred said. He took a step back, rattled and confused.

“I like to think we were dating but you and I both know we just fucked around for a year, and the whole time, I was—” Arthur took a deep breath, started over. “The entire time, you, apparently, had an expiration date in mind. You had this shite planned but you never said a word. That’s cruel, Alfred.”

 _Not like this,_ Alfred thought, _it wasn’t supposed to be like this._

Arthur shook his head and looked away. He pulled his arms in front of himself, palms discretely hiding his now soft dick.

Alfred glanced away.

“You got what you came for,” Alfred said. He was _exhausted._ It wasn’t even noon yet. “Enjoy your party.”

Arthur made a sharp, pained sound but remained firmly in the shower.

“Dude, are you deaf?” Alfred’s voice sounded harsh to his own ear. “Get out.”

Arthur didn’t hesitate. Just ripped the shower curtain to one side and stepped over the bathtub rim. He toweled off hastily. Dressed even quicker than that, didn’t even bother to tie his shoelaces.

Alfred waited until he was sure Arthur was gone to shut the water off and get out, himself. He went downstairs with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Sat beside the box for a long while, staring into its infinite contents.

It had never been real. There were certainly enough red flags, thinking back; to start, Alfred never used the word “boyfriend” for fear of the _boy_ label. What they did, sneaking around, was born of necessity but of fear, too. Of Alfred’s fear. A relationship could not grow tucked away in the dark, hidden even from those trying to nurture it.

Alfred recalled the exact moment he’d known he loved Arthur. It was last July. Matthew went off grid that summer to attend some elite hockey camp up in Canada. Their Mom went with him to do remote work from her Quebec studio. Alfred missed them something terrible; the days were long between Dad’s “business lessons” (mostly, they involved frustrated yelling) and football practice. Unlike the previous summer, Alfred barely saw Arthur and it left a concave feeling in his chest.

An itch like no other started beneath his skin, and it told him to get _out_ already. Get out of this town, get out from under his parents’ thumbs, to somewhere he could just _be_. The only way to alleviate this itch meant doing something impossible, meant leaving. And _that_ was a problem Alfred had never faced before; he loved his life. He didn’t need escapism to be happy.

And yet. Thoughts of going _away,_ of sitting on a beach somewhere with Arthur filled Alfred’s every waking moment. He made it a reality when Dad hopped on a last-minute business trip, leaving Alfred alone for an entire weekend. Convincing Arthur was easy; Alfred waved a bottle of 90 SPF sunscreen in his face and Arthur caved like a sinkhole.

When they were in the car headed east, toward the coast, Arthur tossed his feet up onto the pickup’s dash and rolled down the window. He looked like a cat, stretched out, hair ruffled but not mussed, sunglasses riding low on his nose.

“I hate that noise, can you close your window, please?” Alfred said. They were zipping down the interstate, and the open window created a vacuum in the car.

“That’s how you’ll know we’re getting close, though,” Arthur said. He tipped his head forward to give Alfred an affectionate look over the rim of his glasses. “When you can smell the ocean.”

Alfred swallowed dryly and forced his eyes back to the long stretch of highway before them. His tangled emotions, some of which had been rattling around inside him since (perhaps) that day at the state fair, crystalized into a solid, _I love him._

If Alfred were braver, he might’ve said it back then. But it felt less like relief and more like terror, to put a name to _that_ feeling. _That_ feeling threatened the very foundation on which he’d built himself. It _was_ love, though, when he made Arthur laugh at one of his dumb jokes, or when Arthur gave Alfred half his fries, or when Arthur said something so ridiculously _British_ that Alfred’s heart squeezed and then beat twice as fast. And that had been nearly six months ago.

Alfred was a coward in ways that it counted, and a fool in ways it didn’t, though. He’d owned up to his feelings, alright, but by then it was far too late to make a difference.

Alfred dug through the box and pulled out the bracelet. He ran his fingers over the beads like a master might with their favorite instrument; each crack in the glass, each threadbare stretch of elastic, held hours of memories. Alfred slipped it onto his wrist, a reminder, and then hefted the box out to the trashcan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/Consent issues: Alfred tries to kiss Arthur during an argument, to "prove a point". Arthur pushes him away before anything happens and leaves, leaving Alfred to wonder where he went wrong. (Gee, I wonder?) 
> 
> “ele vai com as outras” is a Portuguese phrase meaning you’re just a follower/going along with the crowd. 
> 
> Ok ok so I had to split this chapter in half and do some serious rewrites in that last scene to get this where I wanted it, oof. I’m debating reworking my outline (again) so that the next chapter aligns with the next chapter of YNFLIOH. At some point, these flashbacks will stop and we’ll end the story in the present, but I need to figure out when the best cutoff point is and it’s just a whole /thing/. Anyway, thank you all so much for your patience, and for all the comments/kudos ❤️ Until next time!


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific TWs: descriptions of physical and emotional parental abuse, ED/disordered eating, and bullying/homophobia.

**_At school on Monday,_** Alfred walked into the building and was met with curious stares. His classmates’ whispers seemed to chase him down every hall, find him around every corner; they said—

_—Jones is an idiot—_

_—best thing going for him—_

_—who’s gonna be prom king and queen now?—_

_—did you see her crying in the bathroom between periods?—_

It took Alfred an embarrassingly long time to get the full scoop. Stacy broke up with him over the weekend, and he was the last one to know about it.

Alfred’s first, irrational thought was that she knew somehow about Alfred’s little _thing_ with Arthur. About Alfred’s little _chat_ with Arthur. About Alfred’s _almost-not-really-a-ki—_

Alfred had to excuse himself from second period to hyperventilate in the bathroom. A couple freshmen lingered by the window, trying to light a cigarette, but they scattered immediately when Alfred stormed in. He gripped the sink so hard he thought the porcelain might crack beneath his palms. He refused to look in the mirror, too ashamed by his own reflection.

Stacy couldn’t know about him and Arthur. She’d only met Arthur the one time, and Alfred made a point to never say anything about their friendship. He didn’t tell Stacy he went to the concert that weekend—it had been spontaneous, after all. Alfred logic-ed it all out in his head, but that didn’t make reality any less terrifying.

He also couldn’t think of a single other reason for Stacy to justify their apparent breakup. Not that Stacy needed a reason; it had never stopped her from taking drastic action in the past.

He left the bathroom as the bell rang, and much to his surprise, the halls flooded with angry girls who were out for blood. _His_ blood. Stacy was popular, not likable. Unlike the dudes, girls couldn’t look past her dumpster fire of a personality just because she had nice tits. But apparently Alfred was even less popular than he thought, when compared to a brokenhearted, weepy cheerleader.

He cared about his classmates’ opinions more than he’d like to admit. He also cared that they spread gossip faster than wildfire—soon, the entire school knew about the breakup. Everyone seemed to unilaterally agree that he was at fault, which would be easier to disprove if he knew the reason why he and Stacy broke up in the first place. Alfred became the school’s social pariah by lunchtime.

Alfred tried to get Stacy alone, to talk it out. It was nearly impossible with her posse following her around like a gaggle of chicks behind their mother duck. Stacy stood at the center of it all, eye makeup _just_ smudged enough that it looked genuine.

Finally, Alfred sort of understood what Ludwig and Feliciano felt like, when the whole school turned against them. And nobody else even knew about Alfred and Arthur’s—

Alfred felt ill thinking about _that-thing-he-didn’t-do-with-Arthur._ It lurked in the back of his mind all day—the shame of it, of letting something stupid get in the way of him and Stacy, of Arthur’s lips and eyes like beacons in the darkness. And if the rest of them found out… If his friends found out… Oh, God, if _Dad…_

“I’m going to tell everyone the truth,” Stacy whispered to him, on her way into the cafeteria, her eyes dry and glinting with vindication.

If Alfred had eaten breakfast that morning it would’ve been all over the linoleum.

“Wait, no, Stace, don’t—” Alfred said (Alfred begged). He reached for her, reached down a long tunnel as the edges of his vision grayed out, but she just smiled and walked away, to where her friends stood glaring at Alfred.

Alfred debated calling the day a wash and ditching to avoid the inevitable fallout. He reminded himself that he didn’t do anything wrong, technically, since he never planted one on Arthur.

He also reminded himself that there was no way Stacy knew what had happened between Alfred and Arthur over the weekend.

(Hell, Alfred barely knew what had happened.)

(Maybe she did know. Stacy and her perceptiveness, perceptiveness that Alfred never had. Sometimes, he swore she knew more about him than he knew about himself.)

Yao and Ivan waited for him at their center table. The two didn’t get along with Alfred’s other friends, but Alfred’s other friends were currently transitioning between glaring at Alfred and vying for Stacy’s attention. Alfred sat with a sigh, tearing into his lunch with enthusiasm he didn’t really feel.

“I am sorry, Alfred,” Ivan said, immediately. “This is my fault.”

It was the most Alfred’d heard him say all month. More shocking was the apology; Ivan ran over Alfred’s gerbil, once, and hadn’t bothered to say sorry then. He’d _laughed_ about it.

“Yes, mine, too,” said Yao.

Both he and Ivan looked at Alfred, as if facing a firing squad. _Weird._

“About what, stealing my chips last week?” Alfred asked, around a bite of his sandwich.

He almost missed the side-eyed look they gave one another. Alfred set down his sandwich.

What role could Ivan and Yao have played in his breakup? Alfred only pondered it for a half-second, his thoughts interrupted by Lovino Vargas passing their table. He eyed Alfred’s no-doubt forlorn expression and his face lit up with the smuggest smile Alfred’d ever seen.

“Hey, Jones, the “F” stands for Fucking alright, Fucking Terrible Boyfriend,” Lovino said. “Even I know that you lost out on a good thing, moron.”

Great, the last thing Alfred wanted to do was deal with Lovino’s snarky ass.

Alfred said, _calmly,_ “I’m not stressin’, she’ll be back.”

“Oh, really?” Lovino said, before lowering his voice. “I fucking doubt that, after hearing the rumors floating around. _I_ heard that you like butt stuff just a little too much, and that’s why Stacy dumped your sorry ass—”

Alfred’s vision went gray at the edges again. Oh fuck. _Oh, fuck._

(Fuck Lovino, fuck him for being so on the nose without even realizing—

Maybe he did realize. Maybe he had super good gaydar because he knew what to look for. But Alfred wasn’t even—)

Alfred stood up from his seat fast enough to send his chair clattering backwards. The whole cafeteria stared at them (they had to be, he could feel their _eyes_ ). Lovino, previously unfazed, went white as a sheet and dropped his lunch tray. The backsplash of milk and beef stroganoff sent Ivan and Yao—who were previously watching the proceedings passively—to their feet, too.

Lovino turned tail and ran out of the cafeteria. Smart move, but not smart enough. Oh, Alfred was going to make that little shit _pay._

“C’mon,” Alfred said, trusting that Ivan and Yao would follow. He slung his backpack over his shoulder before following Lovino out into the hall.

Alfred could feel his heart in his chest—it beat like a war drum. He watched Lovino turn a tight corner, but with everyone at lunch, he couldn’t just disappear.

Alfred caught Lovino by the back of his worn jacket collar, slamming him against the row of lockers. Lovino struggled, slippery and wild as a fish out of water, but he was no match for Alfred’s superior strength.

Once Alfred had him pinned, Lovino’s bravado disappeared and he held up his hands in surrender. He shook when Alfred grabbed his lapels and slammed him back, skull cracking against the metal.

“Between the two of us, there’s only one person who likes butt stuff, you sicko,” said Alfred. “But if you don’t stop running your mouth, I’ll shove my fist so far up your ass you’ll be tasting my punches for months.”

“No, please, keep proving my point,” Lovino said, voice thin but no less bitchy.

Alfred slammed him back, a snarl on his face. The sound of Lovino’s head impacting with the metal for a third time was almost enough to make Alfred cringe, himself.

“You know nothing, Italian,” Ivan said, a sudden, looming presence at Alfred’s side.

Alfred momentarily forgot that Ivan and Yao were with him, but boy was he glad they had his back. His fingers trembled when he curled them into Lovino’s crinkled collar.

“Big words for a little twink,” Yao leered, as he cracked his knuckles.

Lovino bared his teeth, a rich act of defiance coming from someone being physically restrained, and then turned his head to the side to spit. Alfred heard Ivan and Yao’s soles screech across the tile as they moved away, but it was too late for Alfred’s own sneakers. A cool lob of spit sunk through the mesh and met his sock.

“You little _shit_ —” Alfred said.

He reared back, intent on punching Lovino square across the face, but was interrupted by the bell. Alfred only had a few seconds to resolve this issue before the hallways would be crowded by his peers and, worse, teachers. Lovino might be unpopular with both, but Alfred would be in a whole world of trouble if he were caught cracking his knuckles on Lovino’s jaw.

“Just remember—” Alfred crowded in close, nose-to-nose, to stare Lovino down, “—that I’m not your little butt buddy, _dude_.”

“Half your pals on the football team are saying the same shit, Jones,” Lovino said, voice trembling for real, now. “Just remember _that_.”

Ivan and Yao kept close to Alfred as he stormed away, Yao listing off all the reasons Lovino deserved a knuckle sandwich. As they turned the corner, the hallway already filling up with people, Alfred glanced back. Lovino stood rooted where Alfred left him, shoulders compacted and a hand over his mouth. Even from a distance, Alfred could see Lovino's shoulders tremble.

Later that day, in the parking lot, Alfred wrangled the truth out of Stacy.

“I know you went on a date—” she said, arms crossed and looking off, weirdly despondent. Alfred’s heart stopped for a moment before— “with Ivan’s little sister. Gross, by the way, she’s like fourteen.”

Oh. Alfred forgot all about his date over the summer. He leaned heavily against her car, weak with relief.

“Something was up with you, so I poked around. Those two talk the talk but they don’t walk the walk, like, at all.” Stacy gestured behind them to the mostly empty parking lot, where Ivan and Yao hovered by Yao’s utilitarian sedan, pretending not to eavesdrop. The tip of Ivan’s nose went pink at the attention. “They totally caved. Told me everything.”

Alfred probably should have felt angry, or upset, that Stacy broke up with him over something as trivial as his single date with Ivan’s sister that happened four months ago. He did not like that he felt nothing at all, just that lingering sense of relief.

“That’s it?” Alfred purposefully lowered his voice, to avoid being overheard. “You and I are over, just like that, because I went on one date as a favor to my bro?”

Stacy looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes. Unlike earlier, her eyes remained dry. The sadness, however, appeared genuine.

“My dad got a new job.”

“Wait, really? That’s awesome—”

“It’s in California,” Stacy said with a small smile. “We’re leaving in two weeks. They won’t even let me finish out the cheer season.”

That wasn’t fair, cheerleading was practically Stacy’s whole life. Cheerleading and Alfred. Alfred opened his mouth to express his opinion, but Stacy covered his mouth with her palm.

“It’s alright, Alfred. I just thought it would be easier this way.”

Alfred pulled back long enough to ask, “That sucks, I’m sorry. Um, but, Stace, you could’ve just told me that instead of this public breakup thing. You’re fucking up my image.”

Stacy waved a dismissive hand.

“Please, I’m keeping you relevant. Like, now you’re newly single and everyone knows it.”

Alfred leveled her with a stern look. Despite Stacy’s best intentions, she’d scared the shit out of him today, making Alfred think she’d discovered his dirty little secret. She’d also royally fucked him, socially, but that could be fixed. Probably.

“It’ll blow over,” Stacy said, as if she wasn’t skipping town in two weeks. “I wanted to leave you with something to, like, remember me by.”

A strand of her hair had escaped the high ponytail Stacy wore, and Alfred couldn’t resist tucking it behind her ear. He didn’t want to kiss her, he realized, so he drew her in for a hug instead.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and muttered, into his ear, “And stop being such an idiot. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s super obvious to everyone at this school that you’re _off._ Now you have an excuse for not acting like yourself, until you can get your shit together, yeah?”

Alfred held Stacy for another minute, and wondered if he had ever truly understood her. When she walked away, back toward the school because she was already late for practice, she didn’t look back. The wistful part of him wanted to catch a glimpse of her Cheshire cat grin one last time. 

* * *

“Alfred, can you come down here, please?”

Alfred groaned into his pillow. He’d been hiding up here hoping that Dad would leave him alone. He’d arrived home just after two, his meeting cut short, according to the text he'd sent Alfred.

The morning passed slowly after Arthur left, and Alfred couldn’t even bring himself to eat, that’s how despondent he felt. _Alfred_ didn't eat. The world must be coming to an end. He’d been staring at his ceiling like a lovesick, preteen girl for the past several hours, not bothering to check his phone or say hello to Dad when he arrived.

They had plans to go to Dad’s work gala later that evening, to ring in the new year. Alfred’s tux hung, freshly pressed from the dry cleaner’s, on his closet door. He’d been looking forward to it for months—mingling with Dad’s colleagues and friends, sneaking champagne from the caterers, chatting with the hot administrative assistants—but now, after Artur’s visit, Alfred just felt numb.

(Matthew, who made other plans for the evening, wasn’t invited.)

Dad probably wanted to talk about their game plan tonight. Which investors Alfred needed to woo and other important business. Pushing away his butterflies at being included in the social side of the company, Alfred went downstairs.

His father’s study was located at the back of the house on the first floor. It faced the backyard, a sprawling expanse of green to the tree line. Floor-to-ceiling windows in the office allowed early afternoon sunlight to pool on the cherrywood floor. Alfred’s father sat behind his desk; it was an L-shaped oak monolith that belonged to Frank’s father. A leather chair faced the desk, where Alfred’s butt had spent many hours planted as he listened to Dad’s lessons about managing the business. And, somewhere along the way, someone had installed shelves, where Dad placed his awards from work and pictures from company events.

Dad looked up from his monitors—a dual setup that maximized efficiency, according to him—when Alfred walked in. His reading glasses were perched on his nose. The smallest line made itself known between his brows. That wasn’t a good sign.

Alfred swallowed around his tongue to say, “You called?”

Dad studied him for a long moment. His blue eyes matched Matthew’s shade in this light, so deep they were nearly violet. Alfred wished he could find warmth in them, but, unlike Matthew’s, they were devoid of such comfort.

“I’m having trouble reading something, it’s these cheap things,” Dad said, as he removed his reading glasses and waved them in the air. “Can you help me?”

Oh, _phew._ Alfred felt so relieved his knees almost went out. He caught the back of the armchair for support. For a minute there, he thought he was in trouble.

From this side of the desk, Alfred couldn’t see the monitors, so he walked around to stand behind Dad’s chair. One of the screens had Dad’s work email up, the other displayed a low-quality black and white video.

“Alrighty, what are we looking at?” Alfred asked, enthusiastically, leaning in to get a better look at both screens.

“This,” Dad said, and he scrubbed back on the video.

Alfred watched, with increasing horror, as the figures onscreen entered and exited the house at warped, reversed speed. The camera was positioned on the front porch, with a clear view of the door and some of the drive. The footage was clearly shot today, with Dad entering the house first, and then a long stretch of time before Arthur exited. Dad paused on that moment, Arthur’s figure frozen onscreen with his head in his hands.

“Read that timestamp for me,” Dad said. “I can’t see it clearly.”

Alfred leaned in, and said, numbly, “11:49 a.m., sir.”

(When had breathing become so difficult? With each inhale, Alfred’s throat constricted and that broken glass feeling in his gut intensified.)

“What I would like to know,” Dad said, as he picked up scrubbing again, past when Alfred entered the house to Arthur’s own entry, “is why he spent over an hour in our house.”

Alfred’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he cleared his throat.

“I don’t—”

“I think you do,” Dad interrupted, spinning around in the chair. Alfred took a clumsy step back, to avoid being hit. “I also think you know why he has our housekey.”

 _Fuck._ Alfred could get out of this. He _could._ If he just told Dad that Arthur borrowed some stuff from Matthew—that might explain the box—and Alfred gave him the key to drop it off… But, no, that wouldn’t explain his visit’s hour duration or Alfred being there for part of it.

Alfred really should’ve planned for this. He berated himself for being so stupid.

“Dad—” Alfred started, not knowing where he’d end up.

Dad spun back toward the monitor, pulling up a folder with the same fuzzy black and white thumbnails. He picked one at random; this video was shot from a different perspective, a clear view of the backyard and the walkup to the basement. The timestamp indicated it was early morning. Arthur emerged, wearing low-riding shorts and carrying his t-shirt—this footage was from the summer, must be. The perspective changed to a view above the side gate, the timestamp indicating only a few minutes had passed. Onscreen, Arthur used his key to let himself out.

“That was a funny night,” Alfred said, with a strangled laugh. “Arthur spilled soda on his t-shirt—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Dad ran a hand across his jaw. His knuckles were bruised, and Alfred didn’t know why.

Then, he pulled up a video that was clearly shot inside the basement. From the angle, Alfred guessed the camera had been hidden on one of the bookshelves lining the back wall, the entire couch in frame. Alfred and Arthur were intertwined on the couch, Alfred’s shirt tossed over the lamp and Arthur’s undone. Even with the murky black and white video quality, Alfred could see the dark line of bruises across his collar.

“I—I can explain,” Alfred said. “We were—”

“What did I just say,” Dad said, and it wasn’t a question.

A low shiver started at the base of Alfred’s spine and worked its way up to the crown of his head.

He was supposed to be safe. _Arthur_ was supposed to be safe. Alfred took steps to ensure they wouldn’t be caught. The side gate key. The midnight meetups or dates outside of town entirely. The breakup. Alfred wasn’t even _with_ Arthur anymore, something he’d done to protect not only himself and his wellbeing but Arthur’s, too—

Alfred dug his fingers deep into the palms of his hands until he broke skin.

“You would have gotten away with this,” Dad said, slowly, without looking away from the monitors, “but the side gate was left unlocked one too many times. A pattern like that? It’s sloppy. I wish I could have turned a blind eye to this, Alfred.”

“Dad—” Alfred said, and he felt only distantly aware of himself, as if his head were already severed from his body.

“Shut up,” said Dad, still not yelling, and Alfred wished. Alfred wished that he would. Wished that he would get it over with.

“I installed the cameras outside and thought nothing of it. Figured the lock was a faulty mechanism. I was worried about your safety, son. Our family’s safety.”

Dad spun around in his chair, then, eyes impossibly colder behind his glasses and staring deep into the distance. He ran a hand over his bald head, the only sign of weakness a Jones man should possess. _Genetics cannot be overruled,_ Dad always said.

Dad always said a lot of things. A lot of things that he should keep to himself.

“I noticed this Kirkland boy coming and going,” Dad continued. Then, more to himself, “Never did like that Kirkland boy.

“He had a schedule. I’m not an idiot, despite what you might think by pulling this little stunt of yours. So, I hired someone to install cameras inside the house.

“I always thought your brother was the weak one. Quiet. Limp-wristed.” Dad’s eyes met Alfred’s for the first time and pinned him there, like a buck in front of a scope’s bullseye. “For once, I will gladly admit to being wrong. ‘A father always knows’, my ass. You managed to hide it so well from me, I’m almost impressed.

“But you are weak. _Sloppy_. This behavior—” He shook a finger at the screen. “—is sloppy, Alfred. Allowing your faggot friend to come onto my property? What if the press was lurking around, what then? Do you understand what that sort of headline would do to this company’s reputation? And what would my stakeholders think?”

He wasn’t mad about Alfred being with Arthur, Alfred realized in a flash of unusual clarity. Or, at least, Dad seemed _more_ upset about the optics than about Alfred being with Arthur. 

Alfred pulled up his big boy pants—metaphorically speaking, of course—and his hero’s courage to ask, “And what about you?”

Dad stared at him over his steepled fingers. He sized Alfred up, those cold eyes searching for… something. Alfred didn’t know what.

“What do you think, Dad?” Alfred said. _Oh god,_ he realized suddenly, _I’m going to say it. I’m going to tell him._ “About-about me being… About me being with him?”

Close. So close. The unsaid words tasted bitter on his tongue.

“I think,” Dad punctuated the word by getting to his feet, “that I taught my son better. This behavior cannot be tolerated for the future heir to _my_ company.”

Alfred flinched and took an instinctive step back. He wanted, desperately, to apologize. To drop to his knees, even, and beg for forgiveness. To agree, that this _behavior_ was everything Dad said and more, that Alfred was sick and wrong and deranged. Most of all, Alfred wanted to make promises. _I don’t feel anything for him, Dad._ And _I did it because I was drunk,_ or _high._ And _I won’t do it again._

Promises Alfred couldn’t keep.

And another, deeper part of Alfred wanted to confess it all. _I love him, Dad, and nothing you can ever say will make me want to replace that feeling. Your feelings do not supersede mine._

_I’m gay. I’m gay, I’m—_

Instead, Alfred said, “I want to know what the press would say if they knew I took it up the butt.”

(Stupid. _So_ stupid.)

Dad’s fists clenched at his sides. Alfred couldn’t look at him, not yet, couldn’t face the look of raw fury that hovered on the edge of his vision.

“Give me your phone. You’re grounded.”

Dad’s voice never once wavered, but Alfred understood the extent of his anger, now. He never threatened Alfred and Matthew with groundings. Called it the “weak man’s whipping”.

Not that Matthew and Alfred received the belt. Often.

Alfred took a breath and met his father’s eyes. When he squared his shoulders, he stood taller than his father by almost four inches. The awards that lined the shelves behind Dad’s head were made of mostly glass. Much like Alfred’s father, they could not sustain a heavy blow. Unlike those awards, Dad had already shattered apart.

“No,” Alfred said.

His phone would stay in his back pocket where it belonged. Alfred was done bending to his father’s every demand.

Dad’s jaw tightened. He took another step forward—and Alfred, despite his newfound resolve, fumbled backward.

“What did you just say to me?” said Dad.

“I-I said,” Alfred said, hating how his voice went up half a pitch and he stuttered. “No, I’m not going to do that. Sir.”

The tension snapped; Dad lunged forward and, like a cobra springing to action, struck Alfred in his face with a closed fist. Alfred went down, hard, palms slapping against the hardwood. The dull roar of disbelief pushed out the physical pain, but when Alfred brushed his tongue over his lips, he tasted blood.

From this angle, his father towered. If he had hair, it would be disheveled. Dad sighed, adjusted his glasses, and held out a palm.

“Your phone. Now,” he said.

Alfred reached into his back pocket and retrieved his phone. His fingers shook. Defeat tasted like the iron on his tongue, sounded like the ringing in his ears. There was dull numbness in his knees and in his head, pounding. His jaw throbbed when he prodded it.

“If you gave it to me the first time I asked, son, I wouldn’t’ve had to do that,” Dad said. The anger bled out of his voice and was replaced with a certain detachment.

“We were dating, me and Arthur,” Alfred said, because he couldn’t get any lower than this, surely. “You can’t take that from me.”

Dad paused. He stared down at Alfred—his self-proclaimed favorite son, his business protégé—and said, “Get the fuck out of my office, Alfred.”

Alfred pulled himself to his feet. Dad ignored him and Alfred did the same, just limped away, feeling bruised in more ways than the literal.

The mirror in the first-floor bathroom reflected the full extent of Alfred’s injury; his nose was bleeding but probably not broken, his lip was cracked and also bleeding, and a bruise purpled on his jaw. His glasses, already crooked, were bent from the impact with the floor. Alfred tried to fix them to no avail.

Alfred retreated back to his room, where he curled up in bed and attempted to shut out his racing thoughts. With nothing to distract him, though, he relived the past few minutes over and over.

Dad hit him. Dad _never_ hit him. He used corrective measures to discipline Alfred, when he was younger, but he’d never struck Alfred. Maybe Alfred deserved it for mouthing off. Hell, maybe he deserved it for breaking his father’s trust and inviting Arthur into the house without his permission.

But Alfred didn’t deserve to be struck because of his father’s beliefs. Alfred reminded himself of that, over and over. It was the only lifeline he had, so he clung to it like a drowning man.

Later—Alfred couldn’t determine the time, hadn’t bothered to look at the clock in hours—Matthew came knocking on Alfred’s door.

“Alfred, are you okay?” Matthew asked.

The genuine concern in his voice almost brought tears to Alfred’s eyes. Except, he couldn’t face Matthew right now. Not like this, face bruised after being home alone with Dad all day. Matthew already had enough reasons to hate their father, Alfred didn’t need to give him another.

“Please,” Alfred said. “Please go away, Matthew.”

Something in his tone must have betrayed him because Matthew paused. Alfred imagined him with his forehead pressed against the door.

“If that’s what you want,” Matthew said.

A few minutes later, Alfred heard his father’s voice echoing with Matthew’s as they argued.

“—what happened—” Matthew asked.

Alfred hated that he’d only ever heard his brother’s voice grow in pitch like that around their father. His normally docile brother, angered to the point of shouting.

Alfred’s heart seized in his chest—what if Dad hurt Matthew, too?—and then relaxed when a door slammed. He scrambled to his feet, peeking out of his bedroom window to watch Matthew’s figure race down the drive to the car waiting on the road. Matthew’s friends were here to pick him up for dinner.

Alfred sunk back into bed, buried his face in his palms, and burst into hysterical tears.

* * *

 ** _The time in between Stacy’s departure_** and the holidays passed in a blur. Circumstances turned around for Alfred when Stacy left, the entire school quickly forgetting about her and the stink she’d created about her breakup with the star football player.

Alfred scoring the winning touchdown during the game that sent their team to states also helped out his popularity quite a bit. Not that he was complaining, it felt good to be back on his teammates’ shoulders where he belonged.

Normally their school had two weeks off for Christmas and New Year’s, but this year New Year’s Day was on Tuesday. This meant that the school district gave them an extra four whole days to kick back and relax. Usually the Jones family would already be at the ski resort by now, but Mom insisted that they book a few days closer to Christmas so they’d have more time to pack.

Alfred wondered what she needed to pack that would take her an extra two days. When she announced the decision, though, he kept quiet for once. Things had been tense in the Jones household lately, when his parents bothered to be there in the first place, and Alfred didn't want to disrupt this current, shaky peace. 

On the first day of vacation, Mom swept into the basement where Matthew and Alfred were watching an eyeroll-worthy comedy, to announce, “We’re having dinner as a family.”

They never had dinner as a family anymore—with Mom and Dad _both_ being so busy with their jobs and away from the house most of the time—so Alfred was understandably excited. Until—

“Up, up, come on, boys. We’re having a guest over!”

Alfred rolled his eyes but hid his frustration with a smile.

“Is it even a family dinner in that case?” mumbled Matthew, although Mom seemed not to hear him.

“Cool!” said Alfred. “Who is it?”

Mom fluttered a hand. She drifted toward the television, her eyes glued to the screen.

“Oh, just an old temp of mine… what _are_ you two watching?”

“ _Maman,_ ” Matthew said—ugh, why did he have to speak in _French?_ “Who’s coming tonight?”

Mom blinked and looked at Matthew with a confused expression on her face.

“Did he not tell you? He’s _your_ friend, darling, Francis Bonnefoy.”

Double ugh, more French people. Alfred hadn’t thought about Francis since he’d relocated to New York after graduation to attend some prestigious fashion school. How Francis afforded it, Alfred could never guess.

Matthew’s face lit up, though, so maybe having Francis over for dinner wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Why wouldn’t he tell me he’s back in town?” Matthew said.

Mom paused for a minute. The confused expression remained in place, as if she hadn’t considered it.

“I think he wanted to surprise you,” she said, before waving her hand again in dismissal. “Forget it, he will be here soon and I would like you two in nicer clothing than…”

Alfred glanced at his holey t-shirt—which _Dad_ wouldn’t care if he wore to a family dinner—and groaned. What was so special about Francis, anyhow?

He found out a few hours later when he greeted Francis in the hallway, dressed in his Sunday best. Francis hadn’t received the attire memo, apparently, because he swept in wearing a trench coat that hung off his frame. He refused to take it off, demanding in that awful accent that Alfred, “unhand him, American swine.”

Alfred unhanded him and debated clocking one across Francis’ jaw before Matthew arrived to diffuse the situation. Matthew _did_ arrive, then, and Alfred never got the chance. Pity, Francis could probably use a good knocking around. For his own good.

Honestly, Alfred anticipated feeling something other than irritation when he first saw Francis. This was Arthur’s infamous ex, and one of the first gay dudes to come out at their school. Based on what Alfred knew about Francis, he was a suave, sexy (but not _actually_ sexy, because _gross_ ), slightly pretentious, otherworldly figure. Someone worthy of Arthur’s attention and, therefore, someone to fear.

But Francis, Alfred realized, was not at all who Alfred built him up to be in his head. Next to Alfred, Francis cowered. He seemed frail. Meek. Not at all the same, bold person Alfred knew from high school.

Seeing Francis like this did not give Alfred any measure of satisfaction. Maybe it should have, but all Alfred felt when he looked at Francis was, weirdly enough, pity.

The dinner table was set for five. Dad sat, waiting, in his usual spot at the head of the table. He looked up, uninterested, before glancing back at his phone.

Mom swept in a few seconds later, carrying a freshly carved turkey. She set it down on the table before rushing to greet Francis, holding him at arm’s length to take him in and chattering away in rapidfire French that even Alfred, with his intermediate language skills, couldn’t follow.

Matthew stood to the side, left out as usual. Francis barely looked his way, the dick.

Alfred tried to catch his eye but Matthew wouldn’t pick up on the twin brainwaves Alfred sent his way.

“Marie?” Dad drawled. “The food is getting cold.”

That was the cook’s problem, not Mom’s, but Mom said, “Let’s eat!” before Alfred could point it out.

Somehow, Alfred wound up sitting beside Francis. He gave Alfred a glassy-eyed stare when Alfred handed him a dish. Alfred wondered if he’d taken drugs or something before coming over. He wouldn’t put it past Francis.

“So, Marie, care to explain what is going on here?” Dad said, before taking a giant bite out of his turkey leg.

Mom fidgeted with her rings. Alfred and Matthew’s mother was not a frail person, but there was fragility to her. She was a capable person, but she had never known grit. Not like the Jones men had.

“Our friend is visiting and we wanted to make him feel welcome, isn’t that right, _Matthieu_?” Mom said.

Matthew’s wide-eyed look was not lost on Alfred. He twisted his hands deep into the sleeves of that Canada hoodie he always wore and remained quiet.

Dad, however, did not.

“So he’s ‘our’ friend now, is he?” Dad shook his turkey leg at Francis in a way that, to the wrong audience, might be threatening. He took a swig from his rocks glass. “First, your little dalliance with that loan shark, now this? He’s barely legal! Who’s next, our checkout clerk at the grocery store?”

Alfred didn’t know what Dad was talking about, exactly, but Mom’s expression was fraught with guilt. She responded to Dad, something about her supporting Francis’ academic life as his benefactor. Alfred let her, and Dad’s, words fade into the background like television static.

Francis must’ve eaten before he came over, because his plate remained suspiciously bare. When he did eat, he made a ritual out of it. Alfred watched this instead of paying attention to the conversation around him. Francis pushed a few peas around his plate for several minutes before stabbing them with his fork. Then, he raised his fork to his mouth, as if to eat the peas, but lowered it to the plate again. This would go on for several _more_ minutes until, finally, Francis would get this horrible expression on his face and put the food into his mouth. He swallowed and started the process over again.

Alfred, who was sort of pissed on behalf of their cook, leaned over to ask, “Hey, man, what the hell are you doing?”

Francis jumped so bad Alfred thought he’d fall out of his coat. He scowled at Alfred— _there_ was that familiar attitude—and said, “It is none of your business, I should think.”

“Yeah, but like, c’mon, the food can’t be that bad—”

Francis’ cheeks, if it was possible, drained of any remaining color. His fork, mid-stab on a bite of turkey, clattered to his plate. He stood from the table suddenly. Dad and Mom stopped snipping at one another—seriously, what was with them?—to watch Francis flounder.

“Excuse me, I need to use the toilet,” Francis said, that awful accent extending his “e”s. He turned and rushed from the room without looking back.

Okay, Alfred hadn’t meant for _that_ to happen. Francis was way too touchy, honestly.

Matthew’s disapproving stare, though, made Alfred flush with guilt and look away. Matthew shouldn’t be upset at Alfred, not when this dinner was all Mom’s fault. 

“—owe his father money, Frank, this is the best way to repay him,” Mom was saying, when Alfred tuned back in. “Since I was his employer and mentor, it keeps my nose clean, and I’m only comping the tuition not covered by his scholarships. We can more than afford it—”

“Afford?” Dad asked, in that low way of his that indicated immediate danger. Alfred felt his blood freeze and wondered if Matthew was the same. But Matthew, it would seem, had done a better job of tuning their parents’ arguing out than even Alfred; he stared into the middle distance with a glazed expression on his face.

“We wouldn’t be in this situation if you hadn’t gotten involved with that crook Bonnefoy in the first place,” said Dad. “That boy hasn’t been in contact with his father in over five years, and all of a sudden he comes creeping back, after your little affair, just to use his son for cash? It’s ridiculous. I almost feel sorry for that kid.”

Woah. Mom knew Francis’ dad? But how? And had Alfred misheard but she was paying for his tuition, too?

Alfred, deep in thought, did not notice Francis reenter the dining room. Although Alfred, who was used to keeping an ear out for Matthew’s soft tone, was the only one to hear Francis speak.

“ _Pardon—_ ” His hands shook when he wiped them on his pants. The sheen of sweat on his cheeks sharpened his cheekbones.

Everyone else, even Matthew who seemed deeper in thought than ever, ignored Francis.

“Oh please.” Mom’s voice dripped with disdain when she spoke. “Don’t pretend that you care about him. All you ever do is use people to prove a point—”

Francis swayed on his feet. This seemed to catch Mom’s attention. She froze mid-sentence and stood from her chair, a concerned look on her face.

“Marie, what—”

Francis licked his lips. His cracked, dry lips. He opened his mouth, as if to speak. Whatever he had to say would have to wait. Francis’ eyes rolled back into his skull and, like a puppet with cut strings, collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

* * *

Alfred rang the new year in alone. He stared at his bedside clock and watched the red numbers flick from 11:59 to 12:00. Only afterward did he remember that his clock was fast; he’d been in the next year of his life for over five minutes and he didn’t even know it.

His father knew. Had known since this past summer and suspected for a lot longer. Alfred felt sick when he thought of all the things he and Arthur did in the basement when they were alone. Alone with the camera, apparently.

At least the videos didn’t have sound, Alfred thought with a sick clench in his gut.

The time he spent with Arthur was precious to Alfred, even if Arthur felt differently. But now those memories were corrupted. Even the softest moments—Arthur running a hand over Alfred’s cheek, Alfred play wrestling with Arthur on the couch, them laughing at some movie and at each other—couldn’t be revisited without the new knowledge that someone observed their every move.

Where had Alfred gone wrong?

When he and Arthur were dating—or, _whatever_ they did during that year’s span, according to Arthur—Alfred fucked up plenty. He acted cagy around Arthur’s family, even though they knew about the two of them. He refused to introduce Arthur to his parents, although Arthur forgave Alfred of that.

“You don’t have to come out if you aren’t ready,” Arthur said once, early on, as he ran his thumb over Alfred’s knuckle in a comforting gesture. Arthur understood how difficult parents could be, when it came to these things, and Alfred’s parents were more than just _difficult._

(Alfred came to Arthur on more than one occasion, panicking, because he thought Dad knew, thought he’d figured them out—

and Arthur held him every time, calmed him down. Then, Alfred would panic because _this_ was the most incriminating evidence of all, and what if Dad came bursting through Arthur’s bedroom door, somehow—

there were many sleepless nights, back then.)

Arthur’s resentment came later. And never because Alfred refused to tell Dad. But Arthur wanted something that Alfred couldn’t give him—an outward acknowledgement of their relationship.

(“I don’t know how to help you with this… paranoia, Alfred!” Arthur shouted once, in the middle of an argument about Alfred’s inability to be seen in public with Arthur.)

Maybe it started with Lovino, and all the wrongs Alfred had dealt him. Ludwig and Feliciano, too, and Francis. Alfred hated them, once, by virtue of simply existing. Alfred did not want to be like them. Alfred could not be like them. So, he tried to distance himself from Lovino as much as possible. Really let his disgust show.

Alfred’s friends forced Lovino to come out when he was a sophomore. They blindfolded him and locked him in a janitor’s closet until he admitted to jerking it to gay porn during gym class. They made him repeat, “I’m a little boy lover,” for the camera and then spread the video around school. Administration stepped in before it hit the internet. Still, Alfred had received the video from enough people to remember the way Lovino's voice shook with terror, clearly repressing tears.

The porn-during-gym was a rumor that Alfred started. He wasn’t there when his football buddies pushed Lovino into that closet—like something out of a crummy ‘80’s movie—but he might as well have been.

Maybe, when holding a mirror up to himself and his past actions, Alfred needed to start there. With Lovino Vargas. If Alfred could just get five minutes alone with him, to talk, he might finally _understand_ where he went wrong with the rest of it, too.

It was half past midnight. Matthew hadn’t returned home yet, wouldn’t until morning. He was with Lovino, Alfred remembered, Lovino and Antonio, all together at some party on the other side of town.

Alfred got out of bed. He crossed the room, past the tux in its plastic sleeve, stopping only to pick up his car keys from the dresser.

Lovino Vargas wasn’t the answer to Alfred’s problems. He _wasn't._ But talking to him was as good a start as any. Alfred just needed to find him first. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for going off-grid for almost two months, folks. Things have been hectic, but a bitch (me) is back with another depressing chapter. And it's not even the content I promised, for shame. We'll catch up with YNFLIAOH next time, I promise 
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much the kudos and comments (which I'll respond to within a reasonable timeframe this time around, I swear), I so appreciate them! Until next time!


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